When the Professionals are Unprofessional
by bemj11
Summary: Holmes has returned, but all is not well. Why is Holmes unwelcome at the Yard? Why is Gregson apparently out to get Lestrade? What does the new Superintendent have to do with it all? And not least, who is responsible for the sudden rash of child killings?
1. Chapter 1

_John Watson_

"Pass the potatoes, will you dear?" The request was, to my ears, innocent enough.

Elisabeth, however, was apparently not of the same opinion, for she shot her husband a glare as she passed the dish.

"I thought you didn't like my potatoes." Came the accusation as she passed on the bowl. Lestrade took it from her left handed. His right arm was mostly healed by now, but it still bothered him in the evenings if he had been using it extensively during the day, and he could not yet manage anything that was too heavy without difficulty. All things considered, however, his recovery from the injury that had so nearly cost him his arm had been remarkable.

Lestrade's eyebrows went up in protest. "I like your potatoes just fine." He replied quickly. It was not the most convincing statement I had ever heard.

"Oh?" Elisabeth demanded. "And what about when we were first married, did you like them then?"

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "They just-caught me off guard." He defended himself. "They weren't what I was used to."

"You wanted to know why they tasted so bland." She reminded her husband. Amy and Olivia paid no notice to the discussion; they were far too used to such picking to let it distract them from either the meal or the contents of the medical text Olivia was insisting on showing her sister.

Lestrade flushed. "I was tired. It slipped out. And they _are_ different from how I used to make them."

Elisabeth favored me with a glance that confided that she thought her husband was crazy. "He puts garlic in them. _Garlic_!" She scoffed.

"I _like_ garlic in my potatoes." Lestrade retorted. "But I would have given it up long ago if I had known we were going to have this conversation every blooming time you made mashed potatoes!"

"See?" Elisabeth asked me. "Have you ever heard the like?" She shook her head. "Ridiculous lout."

The 'lout' was studying the potatoes intently, trying to decide which would lengthen this conversation the least: getting himself a serving of potatoes or ignoring them. Finally he sighed, and turned to his wife with a mournful expression.

"Dearest, you introduced me to a lot of new things and ideas when we were married, and all of them for the better. Your potatoes are just one example of such improvements in my life. Could you be so kind and generous as to forgive my foolish outburst insulting your potatoes and grant me permission to partake of some?"

I nearly burst out laughing. Anyone who said Lestrade didn't have a sense of humor had obviously never seen him at home, begging his wife for permission to eat her potatoes.

Of course, I had observed over the years that Lestrade was a rather private sort of chap, and that it took a lot to get past that closed, business-like exterior. I was amazed and unsure of just how I had managed to make it past that barrier, but the fact that I was sitting here with his family, having a relaxing, cheerful, _fun_ dinner was proof of it. Idly I wondered just how many people had made it into this same seat.

Elisabeth studied her husband. His eyebrow went up. She pursed her lips, and considered the potatoes. Then she looked back to her husband. "Are you wanting me to serve you as well?" She asked dryly.

"Absolutely not!" Lestrade looked scandalized. "Your mother would never let me hear the end of it." He served himself, and passed the bowl on to me.

"It is not unheard of for women to serve their husbands." Elisabeth pointed out.

Amy looked up. "It's actually expected in a lot of places, Da. Can you believe that?"

Lestrade looked over at his oldest daughter. "In some places the children are expected to remain silent until spoken to as well." He said, his expression almost stern.

Elisabeth laughed. "Not a chance of that, Giles. Not for either of them."

Lestrade regarded his daughters fondly. It was an odd thing to see in the man who could make Constables quiver in fear without so much as raising his voice. "I don't know, Olivia stays pretty quiet; just give her a book." An eyebrow went up. "I thought I mentioned I didn't want you reading the Doctor's books at the table."

Olivia reddened. "Sorry, Da." She rose quickly to return the book to the sitting room, and Lestrade turned his attention to Amy. His own eyes stared back at him, framed by her mother's light hair.

"Now what's this I hear about you seeing a young man?" He asked seriously.

Amy's face was suddenly redder than her sister's had been. "Well, he's nice, and kind, and-"

"Does he have a name?" Lestrade inquired. Elisabeth was trying to hide her amusement behind her hand, for her daughter was suddenly as nervous as a suspect brought in for questioning.

"Thomas. Addison." She replied, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

"Thomas Addison." Lestrade repeated. "And when do we get to meet him?"

Olivia, who had returned by now, giggled, and Amy ducked her head. "We have, dear." Elisabeth explained to her husband. "You were out on a case. He's a very nice young man, and handsome, too."

Both eyebrows went up. Amy fought back a giggle of her own. "I'll try to bring him by sometime when you're off, Da, but…" She trailed off. Everyone in the room was fully aware of how often Lestrade was called in to work even on his off days. It was simply a fact of life in this house, and I was both surprised and impressed that none of his family felt any bitterness or resentment towards that fact.

Amy turned impishly towards me. "Do you want to meet him too, Doctor Watson?" She asked.

I laughed. "You certainly don't need _my_ approval, Amy, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Not at all." She assured me, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "I simply thought that perhaps you might be able to convince him that Da isn't going to clap him in irons for so much as looking at his daughter."

Lestrade scowled. "Who says I'm not?" He demanded. "I reserve the right to throw him in a cell until I've met the man myself."

His daughter shook her head in amusement. "Just try not to come home bleeding all over the place, all right? He might get the idea that it's a regular occurrence around here."

Everyone laughed; Elisabeth and her husband exchanged a glance and murmured a prayer while the daughters glanced heavenward. Such things had happened far too often in this home to be treated with complete frivolity.

"So, how is Mr. Holmes?" Elisabeth asked me, and Lestrade tensed ever so slightly. He had not, I suddenly realized, spoken much of Holmes, or inquired after him, or even as to how I was getting on now that I was back at Baker Street.

At one time I would not have expected him to. Now, however, he would have at least mentioned something in passing. But he was being careful not to refer to Holmes outside of business, and now I found myself wondering why.

"Holmes is himself." I replied easily. "Perhaps a little more easygoing, or perhaps I'm still simply delighted to have him back and the novelty has not yet worn off." I shrugged. "Either way, it is good to have him back."

Lestrade relaxed. He had been worried about me, then. Elisabeth's next words confirmed as much.

"You know, I was surprised that Giles found out before you did, Doctor." She said kindly. "You should have heard him after the arrest. Wanted to know what Mr. Holmes thought he was doing, keeping you in the dark while the entire Yard knew he was alive."

Lestrade flushed, and was suddenly intent on his plate, and I knew what the woman was doing.

Lestrade had been worried how I would take what could easily be perceived as a slight, and about how I was dealing with Holmes' return in general, but had not, for whatever reason, felt comfortable broaching the subject. He had therefore decided to let it rest for the time being.

His wife, however, had had different plans, and had brought the touchy subject up, either for my sake or his, where she could mediate if it turned out to be necessary.

The woman was good at that sort of thing.

I shrugged in reply to her statement. "Holmes is Holmes." I said again. "That's just the way he is, and I learned a long time ago not to try read things into his actions that weren't there. Of course," I admitted ruefully, "in some cases I do it anyway, but as far as the case with Captain Moran, there was nothing to take offense at."

"Glad to hear it." Elisabeth said cheerfully. "So why don't you bring him along with you next time you stop by?" I watched as Lestrade looked distinctly uncomfortable with the idea for all of two seconds, and then the expression was replaced by his usual standby, an expression that said that his wife had spoken and would have want she wanted and he had no further opinion on the matter.

"I will, if he will come." I agreed. Elisabeth smiled.

"I'll leave _that_ to you." She said sweetly.

After dinner Elisabeth put her husband and daughters to work cleaning up the kitchen. It still felt a bit awkward to simply sit there and watch while Amy cleared the table, Elisabeth cleaned off the stove, and Lestrade and his youngest were immersed up to their elbows in dishwater, but it had been unanimously decided that I was _not_ allowed to help clean up.

So I sat at the table while Amy glared at me for trying to help her clear it, and again noted that Elisabeth rarely had anything leftover of the meal when we were finished. I watched as Olivia tried to soak her father with dishwater until Elisabeth threatened to make her do the laundry herself this week, and as Lestrade waited until his wife's back was turned to flick one last splash of water at his daughter.

Once the kitchen was clean we adjourned to the sitting room, and the girls would sit and talk of their day. Sometimes Olivia would recite some story or poem she had read or heard somewhere; she was a natural story teller, and a delight to listen to.

Eventually the girls slipped off to bed, and Elisabeth excused herself and left Lestrade and myself alone in the room. It grew quiet then, for Lestrade might laugh and joke with his family, but when left to himself he reveled in the peace and quiet that was not readily available during the day.

He moved to join me on the couch, and settled back with a contented sigh that released with it all the cares and worries of the day. He relaxed, and crossed his arms over his chest as he stretched his feet out in front of him. We sat in comfortable silence, saying nothing because there was nothing that needed said.

Eventually I stirred, reluctant to keep the man up any later, and decided it was time I was heading home.

"Thank you. Dinner was wonderful." I said as Lestrade escorted me to the door. I always found it fascinating that in the absence of his wife, the man would offer me my coat, hat, and walking stick with the same efficiency as the woman herself.

"The family enjoys having you over." Lestrade replied with a smile. "So do I, for that matter."

My eyebrows went up. "And if I tell the boys at the Yard you said that?"

"I'll deny it as they cart you away for even suggesting it." He retorted cheerfully. "You're going to insist on walking home, I take it?" I nodded. "Be careful, then. Good night, Doctor."

"Good night." I replied, and stepped outside.

It was a bit of a walk from here to Baker Street, but nothing unpleasant, so I set out cheerfully. Lestrade might worry about me walking home in the dark, but in similar situations he had the same tendency.

I wondered what it was that made two men who frequently saw the results of what went on under cover of darkness walk out into so boldly. Perhaps it was an act of defiance. Perhaps it was the thought that we might come across someone who had been wronged before it was too late. I had certainly found my share of those in need of help on my way home.

Holmes was pacing when I got in. "Where have you been?" He demanded irritably.

I had forgotten his tendency to overreact to such jaunts in the night, at least, where I was concerned. As for himself, the man thought nothing of wandering through the worst parts of the city in the dead of night, although he repeatedly warned me against being caught out after dark.

"I was over at the Lestrades' for dinner." I said easily. "I stayed rather late, and decided to walk home."

He looked puzzled for a moment, then annoyed. "You walked here from Lestrade's house?" He asked. "After dark."

I nodded. "It's a bit farther to here than it was to my old lodgings, but still an enjoyable walk." I stifled a yawn. It was late, and I was tired. "Did you need something?" I asked.

"No." Holmes replied. "Not at all. Are you heading up to bed?"

"I think so. It has been a rather long day."

"Good night then, Watson."

"Good night, Holmes." I climbed up the stairs in my room and went to bed. I was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me, although I _would_ love to adopt Lestrade as part of the family and bring him home. Oh well.


	2. Chapter 2

_Giles Lestrade_

It was still very early when the knock sounded on the door. I stifled a yawn as I rolled out of bed and went for my housecoat.

I looked back at my wife as I opened the door. Her features were peaceful in sleep, though many would have wondered how she could have looked more peaceful in her sleep when she rarely looked untroubled when awake. I knew better.

She still looked so young, in spite of the fact that our youngest child was nearly a grown woman and our oldest was out in the world, living his own life. She was as young and beautiful as the day I had met her.

And there was still someone at the door. I slipped out into the hall and made my way downstairs.

Hopkins was at the door. "I found a body." He announced, but there was more to it than that. He had a cab waiting, and he was definitely in a hurry.

"I'll be ready to go in a minute." I said.

I left the lad standing just inside the door and hurried back upstairs to dress. Lizzie was up; sometimes I wondered how she always seemed to know when I would be going out and when I would be coming back to bed. She insisted on helping me button my shirt before she slipped out into the hallway as silently as a ghost.

I followed after I had managed to get my shoes on, and she met me at the bottom of the stairs with some food that I didn't bother examining before shoving into my mouth and heading for the door and Hopkins.

The cab stopped just at the edge of one of the worst sections of town. Hopkins didn't hesitate, but hopped out. I followed a little more cautiously.

Hopkins had been quiet during the ride, but now, as we walked, he began to explain. "I was going to visit my sister." He didn't offer a reason as to why his sister lived in this part of town, and I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. "Constable shoulda found him before now, if he'd been doing his job."

Hopkins was angry; when he was upset his speech would slip into a dialect more suited for one of the wretches that roamed these very streets than an Inspector of Scotland Yard. "It's hard to get someone who actually cares about the people down here, Hopkins." I reminded the other Inspector.

"I know." Hopkins grumbled. "But it's not right."

"It's not safe, either." I replied. "_You_ seem to be pretty immune to the kind of 'accidents' that can happen to our people down here-"

"That's because I don't go looking for trouble or harassing folks what are just trying to stay alive." Hopkins interrupted.

"You look the other way." I said softly. "Not all of us can. Not many at the Yard understand what these people go through, either."

"Do _you_ understand?" The question was almost an accusation.

"I've been hungry before." I replied. "I've not had it as bad as most here, but I have an idea of what they're going through. Why do you think I stay clear of places like this?" In fact, I usually sent cases that involved these parts of town to Hopkins and let _him_ deal with them. It was an approach that suited us both.

Hopkins scowled anyway. "Constable Wilson doesn't care about these people. Someone could be bleeding in the street and he'd just walk past them. He's supposed to make the streets safer!"

"I'll deal with Wilson, don't you worry about that." I assured the lad. Hopkins looked only slightly appeased.

"Here, Inspector." He said as we approached the body. "It's not a pretty sight." We were in an alley, barely. It was out of sight for now, but would not remain that way for long.

I stared at the body lying in front of me, feeling ill. I had seen worse, certainly, but what affected me so was the fact that it was a child lying there on the ground before me. It was sickening, and set off a spark of fury in me. I could feel myself tense, my jaw and fists clench, and something in my chest constrict, leaving me with a need to act now, to be moving.

I gritted my teeth as Hopkins knelt by what was left of the boy. His expression was closed now, hard.

"He's not from here, Lestrade." Hopkins said after a moment's inspection.

I blinked. "What?" I asked.

"Nobody from around here is that well fed." Hopkins pointed out. "The boy's thin, but he ain't-wasn't half starved."

"Then he was lost, perhaps?" I suggested. "Can we get something to cover him with?"

Hopkins nodded and disappeared to somewhere, leaving me alone to consider the emptiness in the child's eyes. I shivered, and wondered what kind of person could do this to a little boy.

I had seen a lot during my life, but there were some things I would never understand.

Hopkins was back, carrying a ragged old blanket; carefully we wrapped the body, reluctant to disturb it but determined to offer it what little decency we could.

"Children don't get lost and wander down here." Hopkins said, after a moment. "And anyway, this isn't like over where I grew up. You don't mess with kids round here. No way." Hopkins scowled again. "No, I reckon somebody dumped him here, thought it'd be easy to set us on the wrong track. Whoever did it, they ain't-aren't from around here either."

I considered the bundled up form between us. "You sure about that, Hopkins?"

The lad nodded. "Anyone dumb enough to mess with a kid on these streets wouldn't last long. Ritchie'd find 'em before the Yard could, and he'd take care of 'em in a heartbeat." I wasn't convinced, and it must have shown, because he added, "Ritchie's got his own kids, his own family. He don't-doesn't want anything happening to 'em."

I refrained from asking who this Ritchie was as I considered the matter. Hopkins had grown up around here, I knew that much. I didn't doubt he knew more about the are than I did, either way. "All right." I said. "So what do we do?"

Hopkins looked thoughtful. "Well, if it gets out he was found here, it'll cause all kinds of trouble, that's for sure."

"So we'll take him back to the Yard." I said. "Give the general area he was found in, but nothing specific enough to cause trouble with this Ritchie."

Hopkins nodded, his eyes on the bundle. Then he looked up at me. "Who would do such a thing, Lestrade?" He wanted to know.

I sighed and shook my head. "Don't ask me, Hopkins. I still don't understand it myself." I looked around. People would be up soon.

"Come on." I said heavily. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

_John Watson_

It was at a despicably early hour that Holmes roused me from my bed, insisting that Inspector Lestrade was here to see us. My first instinct was to ask if he were injured; Holmes informed me that the Inspector was fine. My second choice of action was to roll over and go back to sleep, for I _had_ gotten back rather late last night and had never been much of a morning person anyway, a fact of which Lestrade was well aware. I was sure it was Holmes he wanted to talk to anyway.

Holmes abruptly jerked the covers off me. I proceeded to ignore him, but made certain I had a good hold on my pillow so the man could not jerk it out from under my head as well.

"Go away, Holmes." I grumbled. "If no one's injured it's more your area of expertise than mine."

"He asked for both of us, Watson." Holmes informed me severely. "Now come along. I know he kept you out late last night, but we have work to do."

I didn't bother arguing that out of the two of them, it was actually _Holmes_ that tended to keep me out late, but continued ignoring him, knowing that if I could just outlast him, and he didn't get any ideas, he would decide I really needed my sleep after all and go away and catch me up on the case when I finally made it down to the sitting room later.

He did give up, several minutes later, and let out an exasperated sigh before he headed for the door, grumbling under his breath. Abruptly his footsteps ceased, and I risked a peek from under closed eyelids to see what had surprised him.

Lestrade was standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Holmes recovered himself, and cleared his throat. "Watson seems a bit worn out this morning. It seems he was up rather late last night."

Lestrade ignored the statement and turned his gaze on me. "Get up, Doctor. Hopkins and I have a dead body we'd like you take a look at."

"Can't it wait?" Holmes asked irritably. "He only gets unreasonable like this when he's exhausted. He walked here from your home, you know."

Lestrade sighed. "I'd like to get it done before word gets out, Holmes. The more facts we have, the fewer wild theories and imaginations we'll have to deal with. On your feet, man!" He barked at me, as if I were another Constable down at the Yard. Of course, I _was_ still doing work for Scotland Yard, and Lestrade was not above barking or bellowing at anyone he felt needed it, including, apparently, me.

I growled, but opened my eyes and dragged myself upright. "I don't suppose you'd leave so I can get dressed." I grumbled.

Lestrade offered me a tight smile. "Certainly, Doctor." He said, as if it weren't seven-thirty in the morning.

I scowled at him, but he didn't seem fazed. "How long have _you_ been up?" I demanded irritably as I climbed out of bed.

Another grin confirmed my suspicions before he actually answered. "Since around four-thirty, maybe five." The Inspector had gotten less sleep than I had, which meant he had no sympathy for me whatsoever.

"All right." I grumbled. "If you'll kindly wait in the sitting room, I'll be down shortly."

It was tense by the time I made it down, and quiet. Not that I would have expected Holmes and Lestrade to be chatting away by the fireside, as neither was inclined towards an excess of speech, but I would have thought they might have at least been discussing the case or something of that sort.

As it was, the two were absolutely silent and, though perhaps it was just my imagination, trying _not_ to speak to each other. I cleared my throat as I entered the room, and both sprang to their feet. The sudden release of tension was almost tangible.

"Shall we go?" I asked, by now fully awake, and aware that Lestrade would not wish to waste anymore time. Whatever had brought him here was serious, for him to come barging into my bedroom in such a manner.

"Mrs. Hudson is bringing up breakfast." Holmes said, after a glance in Lestrade's direction. "It would be a shame to let such cooking go to waste, and I am sure the Inspector has not had time to eat this morning either."

Lestrade tried unsuccessfully to hide his impatience, _and_ his annoyance with Holmes, for they both knew full well that I would make sure the Inspector had _something_ to eat before we left.

Mrs. Hudson arrived, then, with a tray, and demonstrated her usual uncanny awareness of when to add an extra plate and food for a guest. Lestrade had no choice but to sit down and join us for a meal; he had learned some time ago that there was no sense in arguing with the woman.

The food was good, though eaten in silence, as Holmes seemed preoccupied and Lestrade was obviously worried about his case. We therefore hurried through our meal, and were soon ready to go.

Hopkins was grumbling under his breath as we arrived. "What took you so long-?" He started to ask, but fell silent at the look Lestrade gave him. He stifled a groan as we continued quickly down the hallway. A second later we found out the cause of his displeasure.

"I have to go." He said apologetically. "Cra-The Superintendent wants to know what's going on with that strangling case."

Lestrade nodded briskly. "I'll keep you informed, Hopkins." He promised.

"Thanks." Hopkins replied. Then he hesitated. "Gregson's here." He added, his voice low.

Lestrade didn't quite grimace. "Get a move on, Hopkins." He said. Hopkins didn't need to be told twice.

I didn't ask what was going on between Lestrade and Gregson, or why Hopkins apparently felt the need to warn Lestrade that the other Inspector was here. _Something_ was going on, however; of that I was certain. Lestrade didn't react to Gregson's name, or presence, in such a manner unless it was to the man's face, and that usually only on those occasions when Gregson insisted on giving him a hard time.

This, however, was different.

We reached the door, and Lestrade hesitated. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside." He said uncomfortably.

Holmes was too surprised to protest, or to even say much of anything, as Lestrade opened the door and we stepped inside, leaving Holmes out in the hall.

Lestrade closed the door behind us, and we walked over to the table where a blanket covered the body of a small child.

"It's not a pretty sight, Doctor." He warned me as he reached for the blanket. That the man felt the need to warn me, after all these years, was ample enough evidence that what I was about to witness was going to be thoroughly unpleasant.

I was, however, still completely unprepared for the sight that met my eyes as Lestrade uncovered the corpse.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

After a thorough and rather distasteful examination of the body of the small boy, Lestrade covered him back up. I fancied that I was not the only person in the room relieved when the horrible sight was again hidden, just as I fancied I was not the only one who would continue to be haunted by it.

We left the room, and were reunited with a rather bored and somewhat miffed Holmes. I could hardly blame him for not wanting to be left out, really, in spite of the horror that I had just witnessed. I also wondered why Lestrade had chosen to exclude him. It was not at all like the Inspector.

Lestrade silently led us to his office and closed the door behind him before he actually brought the corpse back up again.

"Hopkins found him in the street not far from his sister's house; he was on his way to visit her." He explained. "It's one of the worse sections of town, but he's convinced that the boy wasn't from down there. He also doesn't think it was done by anyone around there."

I sighed. "Whoever did it knew what they were doing, Lestrade." I said. "You saw the body; it's obvious whoever did it wanted the boy to suffer."

Someone had tortured that child before killing him and dumping him in the street. "This wasn't just premeditated." I pointed out. "It was meticulously planned."

Lestrade somehow managed to keep his expression neutral, though his dark eyes were glittered dangerously. "And we have no way of knowing who it was or when it happened, or even who the boy was." He commented. "We-"

He broke in mid-sentence off as the door opened and Gregson strode in, irritation etched plainly on his face. "Superintendent wants to see you. What's _he _doing here?" Gregson pointed rudely at _Holmes_, much to my surprise.

Lestrade scowled. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" He snapped. "And for your information, I wasn't consulting Mr. Holmes. I was asking the Doctor, _who happens to work here_, for his opinion on something, and Mr. Holmes insisted on tagging along."

Holmes was almost successful in hiding his reaction to that, but neither Inspector noticed anyway. They were too busy trying to glare holes in each other.

"Best not keep the Superintendent waiting." Gregson sneered at the smaller man. "You're already in enough trouble as it is."

"Shut up, Gregson." Lestrade snapped. "I'll leave when you get your sorry self out of my office."

"If you need any help with your case, and I'm sure you will-" Gregson offered mockingly.

"I wouldn't ask you." Lestrade interrupted. "Get out."

Gregson left, and Lestrade turned to the two of us. "Excuse me, Doctor, Mr. Holmes. I'm sorry, but I'm sure you can find your way out?"

I frowned. "But what about the boy?" I asked. "Surely-"

"It will have to wait." Lestrade said dismissively. "Thank you, Doctor. Another time, I hope." He turned and left us standing there in his office, much to my surprise and discomfiture.

Judging by the expression on Holmes' face, I was not the only one taken aback by what had just happened. But Holmes shook his head, ever so slightly, and recovered.

"Come along, Watson." He said, a slight note of annoyance in his tone. "It would seem Lestrade is finished with you for now."

Gregson was still lurking around outside of Lestrade's office as we came out. "Solving another of Lestrade's cases for him?" He asked, as he fell into step with us. I wondered why the man suddenly seemed intent on walking us out.

"He wanted a second opinion on the body." I informed the man coolly. "Nobody is solving anybody's cases for them."

Gregson scoffed. "If you say so, Dr. Watson." Bradstreet shot Gregson a vile look as we passed his office, but the older Inspector didn't seem to notice.

"Is something wrong between you and Lestrade?" I asked, suddenly concerned. I had never known the two to be openly belligerent towards each other, however little they might care for one another.

"Nothing new, Dr. Watson. Don't trouble yourself on his account." Gregson told me sharply. I was essentially being told to mind my own business.

I consequently did not ask if there were something going on between Lestrade and the new Superintendent. I knew Gregson would not have told me if there _were_.

Holmes was in a black mood as we returned to Baker Street, and threw himself into his chair and proceeded to scrape out some of the most grating and nerve wracking compositions on his violin I had heard in years.

I wondered what was bothering him, but knew it would do me no good to ask now. Whatever it was, it would have to wait until the man was ready to share them. I therefore resigned myself to considering those things which were bothering _me_, of which, I must confess, the murdered child was one of the lesser issues.

This sudden outbreak in hostility between Lestrade and Gregson worried me. It was not like them, not in the least. They may have had a form of rivalry going between them, they might annoy and irritate and even dislike each other, but to put that enmity on a pedestal for all to see was certainly not something either man would ever dream of doing.

Lestrade's insistence that he was not consulting _Holmes_ bothered me as well. It was-odd, really, unlike Lestrade, and I didn't quite know what to make of it. Something about the declaration set off warning flags in the back of my mind.

And, unless I was mistaken, Gregson had made some comment about Lestrade being in trouble with the new Superintendent. Lestrade had ignored the comment, certainly, but he had also not refuted it. Was he in trouble with this Crane fellow? If so, why?

I remembered then, near the end of the incident with the previous Superintendent, Marshall, that Hopkins had been the one to inform Gregson of the identity of Marshall's replacement, and that Gregson had been less than pleased. I suddenly wondered why.

Of course, it was not likely I was going to get any answers to my questions soon, and Holmes looked as if he would be occupied for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon. I sighed and tried, unsuccessfully, to distract myself with a book.

The rest of the morning dragged on with agonizing slowness.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

It was shortly after one, and Holmes' violin was beginning to pass the point where I could ignore it, when Mrs. Hudson showed Lestrade into our sitting room for the second time that day.

Holmes continued to scrape away at his violin as I offered Lestrade a seat. He accepted it, but the continued noise made it impossible to discuss anything. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, folded his hands in his lap, and waited for Holmes to finish.

Ten minutes later, when Holmes showed no indication of quitting any time soon, Lestrade frowned. Then he stood up and walked over to where Holmes was sitting.

"Tell me," he said conversationally, though at the same time he was speaking loudly enough that I could also easily hear him from where I was sitting on the couch, "can you actually play that thing, or are you only capable of torturing it?"

There was a sudden screech from the violin, and then the noise stopped. Holmes regarded Lestrade coldly. "I can play." He sniffed. "Quite well, actually."

Lestrade didn't flinch under Holmes' icy gaze. "The only times I've ever heard you play that thing it's been enough to make a man want to claw at his ears." He informed my friend calmly, seemingly unaware of the insults he was throwing at him.

Holmes drew himself up haughtily. "_That thing_, as you call it, is a-"

"Violin. I know." Lestrade interrupted. "And I'm sure you can play rather well, when you feel like it, but I didn't come here to sit and listen to you take out your mood on that poor violin, if you don't mind."

"You aren't here to see me." Holmes reminded Lestrade rather bluntly.

Lestrade flinched as if he'd been struck. "This is about the boy." He said wearily. "Someone tortured and murdered a child, Mr. Holmes, and I'm trying to find out who it was."

"But you aren't trying hard enough to ask for _my _help." Holmes said pointedly.

Lestrade blinked. Then he swallowed and turned to me. He wasn't going to argue with Holmes, I realized, and he wasn't going to explain why he was excluding him, either. "I've got Smith and Adams going through _missing persons_ files, but the killer didn't leave us much to go on."

Holmes rose from his chair and retreated to his bedroom. Lestrade frowned as he watched the man leave, but didn't say anything. When Holmes had gone, the Inspector turned back to me.

"Do you think there'll be more?" He asked, and I had to push away my concerns regarding Holmes, and Lestrade, _and Gregson_, for that matter, and try to focus on the problem at hand.

I shuddered. "I hope not." I murmured fervently as I considered the situation. "Do you?" I asked, reluctant to speculate.

Lestrade shrugged. Like all his movements since he had entered the sitting room, this one was rigid, stiff, and suggested that it was not the action the man _wanted_ to take, but the only acceptable one he could. Something was wrong.

"It depends. It could easily be a revenge killing, the murderer killing the child to get back at someone who was close to the boy." He answered my question grudgingly. "It could also be the work of some lunatic."

I shook my head. "That was thoroughly and methodically done, Lestrade. Someone knew what he was doing."

"Madness takes many forms." Lestrade shot back at me. "Just pray we don't find any more." He started to rise, to leave, but grimaced and sank back into the chair instead, trying not to look trapped and failing miserably at it.

I started to ask about his apparent problem with Gregson. Or Crane. Or Holmes. I started to ask if there were anything he'd like to tell me or anything I should be aware of. I started to ask why he was rubbing his recently healed arm absently _now_, when he'd been fine earlier.

"Did you talk to Hopkins?" I asked instead.

Lestrade stared at me for a second, then relaxed minutely. "I did. I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know."

"Does he still believe the child was from somewhere else?" I asked. Lestrade nodded.

"And the murderer." He added. "He doesn't believe the murderer was from there either."

"So why would he have taken the child _there_?" I asked.

Lestrade considered the question. "Hopkins says people don't mess with children on that street, that one of the gang leaders down there won't allow it. Is it possible," he said slowly, "that whoever killed the child and left him there knew it would cause an uproar, and was, in fact, trying for just that?"

"That's an awfully cold-blooded way of trying to get someone's attention." I said doubtfully.

"Well of course it is." Lestrade agreed darkly. "But I have enough trouble understanding _how_ someone could do something like that to a child without trying to figure out _why_ they did it."

"Would Hopkins know if someone might be trying to send a message to this gang leader?" I asked, though I still wasn't convinced. I just didn't have anything better right now.

Lestrade nodded. "I just hope he doesn't get indignant with me for asking him something ridiculous." He commented.

It was a slip, Lestrade didn't grumble about his fellow Inspectors, but I left it alone. I did, however, file it away for later consideration.

He did rise then. "Leaving already?" I asked, and he forced a smile.

"I have work to do." He reminded me. "Despite what the papers say, I _do_ stay pretty busy."

I chuckled at the memory of the reporter who had been trying for a week to interview someone, anyone, who worked at the Yard and had finally been directed, courtesy of Inspector Gregson, to Lestrade's office.

He had barged in and stood in the doorway, eying the Inspector who apparently had nothing better to do than sit and enjoy a nice cup of tea with his fellow Yarders.

It had taken all of two seconds for Lestrade to notice the reporter and three more for Adams and Smith to escort the man out of the office and close the door in his face. The Constables had settled back down, returned to the closest thing to a meal that they'd had that day, and the four of us continued trying desperately to puzzle out the cryptic string of words that was supposed to reference the next place the arsonist would attack.

The following evening, the reporter's article had accused Lestrade of hosting tea parties in his office instead of looking for an arsonist like he was supposed to be.

Lestrade actually relaxed a bit, and this time offered me a real, if somewhat weary, smile. "We caught him the following night, trying to set fire to the news building." He remembered. "Strange fellow, that one was." He allowed himself a chuckle, but the smile slowly faded, and laughter was replaced with a sigh. "I _am _somewhat busy, Doctor." He informed me briskly, all Yarder now. "Thank you for your time. Good day, sir."

"Keep me informed." I said unnecessarily as I showed the Inspector out. "Good afternoon, Lestrade."

Holmes had returned to the sitting room by the time I had made it back, and to his violin as well, though he tossed it carelessly aside as I settled back onto the couch. He also refused to discuss Lestrade's visit, or the case at all, though I certainly tried to get him involved.

I didn't doubt Lestrade could use his help, whether he was asking for it or not, and I could not bring myself to seriously entertain the idea of Lestrade not accepting Holmes' advice or assistance, in spite of what had been said back at Scotland Yard.

It hardly mattered, however, as Holmes would not be drawn into the matter, but sat staring moodily into the fire.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

It was Hopkins who stopped by later that evening. He thanked Mrs. Hudson for showing him in, but had held on to his coat and hat.

He offered me a smile as our landlady left. His fake smile was better than Lestrade's, at least, but he still wasn't fooling either Holmes or myself. "We were talking, Bradstreet and I," he said brightly, "and came to the sudden realization that you'd been working with us for two years now, and nobody ever invited you to join us on Friday nights."

"I thought that was just you Inspectors that got together." I replied, hopefully sounding easier than I felt, for I knew this was leading somewhere, and wasn't sure I would like where it ended up.

Hopkins shook his head. "Most of the time it's just the Inspectors, but there are exceptions, you know. Sometimes Smith and Adams join us, and once in a while one of Gregson's buddies will show up, whenever they're in London. But there's really not any reason that_ you_ shouldn't be welcome, so Bradstreet and I thought we'd invite you to join us, and Mr. Holmes, of course."

Holmes looked up from his pipe. "I was under the impression that I was less than welcome at the Yard."

Hopkins made a dismissive noise. "That's business." He said. "This is pleasure."

I knew better than that, but it seemed that Hopkins, at least, wanted Holmes present, so I didn't say anything. And after all, it was _possible _that this wasn't related to the case; it just wasn't very likely.

"Will you come, then?" Hopkins asked hopefully, and I nodded.

"We'd be delighted, of course. Wouldn't we, Holmes?" I said cheerfully. Holmes looked from me to Hopkins, and seemed to be on the verge of refusing, but at last he stood and crossed the room, sweeping out the door ahead of us.

Hopkins grinned at Holmes behind his back, which left me wondering what I had just gotten myself into.

The place was crowded when we got there, but no one gave us a second glance. The Yarders were a common sight here, especially on Friday nights, and as long as everyone left them alone, they returned the favor. Since we had entered with Hopkins, we would have been placed into that same category.

Their usual table, too, was crowded already, and from the sound of things there was an argument going on.

"All I'm saying is, that seemed a bit harsh." I recognized Bradstreet's voice and realized he was irritated, for him.

"A bit harsh?" That was Jones. "It was completely uncalled for. You're only making things worse, you know."

Hopkins looked back at me. "Gregson asked Lestrade if his wife was still helping him tie his shoes, right in front of Crane." I wasn't entirely certain what that was supposed to mean, and apparently, it showed. "Gregson and Lestrade have been going at it since Crane took over for Marshall, which is bad enough, but Gregson seems to have caught on to the fact that Crane's taken issue with Lestrade and is taking advantage of it." Hopkins explained quietly.

"Crane's taken issue with-" I started, but Hopkins cut me off. We had reached the table.

"Later." He hissed. "You were supposed to get extra chairs, Bradstreet." He complained.

Bradstreet only shrugged. "Lestrade can get his own, when he shows up. He's been touchy about people doing things for him lately, for _some _reason." Here he shot Gregson a glare. "He growled at me for holding the door open for him earlier. He was only a few seconds behind me." Bradstreet complained.

"And I can get my own chair too, I suppose?" Hopkins retorted.

"Unless you want to make one of your guests get their own." Gregson suggested. "Or you could try to take Jones'. His is the good chair, anyway."

"Not on your life." Hopkins said fervently. "I still remember what happened with that fellow who was stupid enough to try to run us off that time it was just the two of us."

Jones grinned, and Hopkins went off for a chair. Left alone with the other Yarders, Holmes and I exchanged an uncertain glance, and I wondered how much Hopkins' opinion would count if Gregson or Jones decided we weren't welcome.

"If you're still standing when Lestrade gets here, one of you _will_ have to get your own chair." Gregson informed us.

"Have a seat." Jones added. They weren't going to take issue with our presence, at least. Whether that meant we were welcome or not was yet to be seen.

We sat, and hesitated when someone came to ask what we wanted to drink. An evil gleam sparkled in Jones' eye, and he offered to order for us.

"You'll kill them, or run them off." Bradstreet countered. "Order them that stuff Lestrade gets, and they'll be fine."

Jones grumbled, and Gregson snorted. "What about Hopkins' drink of choice?" He suggested disdainfully.

"Hopkins drinks that stuff because it's what he grew up on." Bradstreet defended the lad, even as he made a face.

"Why don't we just wait for Lestrade? He'd probably know what they'd like." Gregson suggested.

Bradstreet rolled his eyes at the other Inspector, and Jones was suddenly interested in watching Hopkins haul a stool over.

"Are we all going to fit?" Jones wanted to know. "Lestrade was awfully chummy with Adams and Smith earlier."

"He's got them helping with that case." Hopkins told him. "They must have found something."

"We found the identity of the boy." Lestrade cut in, setting down a stool, and I wondered if he'd been expecting us.

Jones groaned. "Why do you always have to drag your work along with you?" He wanted to know, but it must have been an old complaint, because Lestrade simply ignored him.

"You're late." Gregson informed him, as Constables Smith and Adams appeared with stools of their own. The table _was_ beginning to get a bit crowded. "Have trouble getting the door open?" he taunted.

"Shut up." Lestrade snapped. "I'll put up with it at work, but I don't have to take it here, Tobias."

"Testy?" Gregson replied with a smirk, completely unfazed. "I'll give you the evening off, but that's it. I wouldn't want people to think I actually _like_ you."

Lestrade actually sneered at the other man. Then he caught sight of Holmes and myself. "Is this your doing, Hopkins?" He asked, though he didn't seem surprised or upset to see us here.

"We thought they might enjoy a drink." Hopkins offered, and Jones snorted. Gregson shot him a look, and Jones' jaw snapped closed with an almost audible click. "And since they're here…" Hopkins trailed off.

"Might as well." Lestrade muttered. "We found out who the body was." He said to me. "A little boy name of Charlie Rhodes. His parents live clear on the other side of London. There's no way the boy could have gotten there by accident."

"And no, the kid wasn't left as a warning for Ritchie." Hopkins added, looking at me. "A rival gang would've left their mark."

Gregson wasn't interested. Neither were Jones and Bradstreet. They continued talking around us, swapping jokes or horror stories about the week, and so on. I wondered that they weren't more interested in the case.

"Have you spoken with the parents yet?" I asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"They filed a missing persons report this morning." He said grimly. "The boy had been missing for four days already."

"Evans mentioned it," Adams supplied, "when he heard we were looking for someone. He said they didn't seem like they expected the Yard to be able to do anything. He said he thought they almost seemed to be already mourning his death."

"You think maybe they knew he was dead?" I asked. Adams shrugged. He was content to leave the speculating to the Inspectors present, it seemed.

"It's possible." Hopkins answered me instead. "Sometimes the parents will file a report, even though they know the kid's gone, to save face. I knew a few people like that. The worst were the ones that'd kill their own baby and then go to the police because it was missing."

"They don't do that so much now, though." Lestrade said impatiently. "Not since they figured out it we weren't as daft as the papers like to portray us as being."

"It took all of a minute for Gregson to figure out what had happened." Bradstreet supplied, taking a sudden interest in our conversation. "He was furious, too. It's a wonder-"

"I'm a member of Scotland Yard." Gregson sniffed. "An Inspector, no less. But she deserved worse than she got." He glared at Bradstreet for a few seconds before turning to answer to something Jones had said.

Bradstreet winked at me. I wondered if he were as uninterested in what was happening as he pretended to be. He had already been conspiring with Hopkins to get us here, if the lad had been telling the truth.

But Hopkins and Lestrade were already moving on. "So why wait?" Hopkins wanted to know.

Lestrade sighed. "It's possible the parents are involved in something they don't want to risk us finding out about. They could also-" He broke off as a young man stepped forward nervously, asking if he could get us drinks.

Lestrade looked around quickly, as if to confirm who did and did not have a drink, then rattled off an order that I assumed was meant to include not only himself, but also the Constables, Holmes, and me. The young man nodded and departed swiftly, and Lestrade continued.

"The parents could also simply not trust the members of the London police force. It's not uncommon."

"We never did, growing up." Hopkins agreed thoughtfully. "There was one, maybe two, that we didn't avoid like the plague." He shook his head. "And nobody on our street ever went to the Yard with reports of missing children." He added. "But this boy's parents, you said they lived across town?"

Lestrade shrugged. "My next door neighbor doesn't trust anyone that works at Scotland Yard." He offered. "It's not just the lower class."

"It comes from all that corruption." Gregson put in, apparently deciding to meddle again. "They'd cleaned a lot of it up by the time I made it to Inspector, but it was still pretty prominent, and people knew it."

Jones snorted. "That's why _we_ got promotions," this was said to Holmes, "we weren't the best or the brightest, but we weren't charging the less fortunate souls in the city for protection, or involved in smuggling, or in kidnapping homeless urchins for the slave market, or any number of other offences."

"Speak for yourself." Gregson sniffed. "_You_ may have been promoted simply because you were clean; I, however, made it to Inspector because I had the brains for it as well. But it's true," he continued, "that in the past they've passed over someone brighter because they'd been involved in something questionable in the past." Here Lestrade cleared his throat, impatiently, but Gregson simply smirked and said in reply, "Of course, this was after Lestrade made it to Inspector. I'll never know _why _they chose to promote _him_."

"Shut up." Lestrade grumbled. "You know bloody well why they promoted me." Gregson chuckled and was content to drop out of the conversation again.

"Why _did_ they promote you?" Hopkins asked, curious. Then he realized how the question sounded, and blushed. "I mean, that is-not that I think-"

Lestrade actually laughed outright at the younger man. "Take it easy, Hopkins. I know what you meant." The outburst did a great deal to disperse some of the tension that had been building at the table, tension I hadn't been aware of until it suddenly lessened. Gregson and Jones were exchanging a more relaxed glance as Hopkins tried to recover himself and Lestrade settled down and took a drink.

He chuckled as he set down his mug, and shook his head. Then something behind me caught his eye, and he swore.

So did Hopkins, for that matter, though with significantly coarser language. Gregson also managed an expletive of his own before the five Inspectors present shifted and were suddenly seated around the table with an air of laziness and purposely vague expressions.

Adams and Smith were suddenly sitting there with the ill ease of someone who was not entirely certain they were welcome; it was the same feeling that had been with Holmes and myself when we had first arrived.

Gregson grinned, and raised his drink as if in salute. "Superintendent." He nodded. "Pull up a chair, if you can find the room."

"Would you mind?" A voice that I could only assume belonged to Superintendent Crane floated smoothly past me. "I'm afraid I'm rather unfamiliar with this place. I'd hate to borrow the wrong chair."

Lestrade managed an extremely forced smile and nodded, then stood and vacated his stool. He left as Crane sat down, presumably to find another chair.

Hopkins bit his tongue and didn't say a word. Bradstreet twitched a bit, and Jones hid his expression behind his drink. None of them were pleased by the Superintendent's presence, I gathered.

Gregson, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind. "You know all the Inspectors present, I believe?" He asked easily, as if addressing an old friend.

Crane nodded. It reminded me of the way some of the nobility acknowledged their servants. "Bradstreet, is it? And Jones? And what was it, Hopkins?"

The three nodded, but didn't bother trying to take part in the conversation. Gregson shot Jones a dark look as Crane's attention was momentarily distracted when Lestrade returned with another stool, but Jones merely raised his eyebrows and defiantly took another drink.

Gregson was smiling again as Crane's attention returned to him. "You probably haven't met Constables Adams and Smith yet." He suggested pleasantly.

Heavy lidded eyes regarded the pair curiously. "Would you be related to _Inspectors _Adams and Smith?" He asked.

Adams nodded. "Yes, sir. Inspector Adams was my father. Likewise Inspector Smith was his." He tilted his head towards Smith. "I joined shortly after my father retired."

"Retired?" Crane was surprised. "He wasn't that old. But perhaps there were other considerations than age that were the cause?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak. Then he flinched, and his mouth snapped shut. I was almost certain _someone_ had kicked him under the table, and it seemed to be Gregson that had done so.

"He was injured while on duty." Adams replied, oblivious to the battle under the table. "Shot in the leg. He can't put hardly any weight on it."

"Ah." Crane turned to Smith. "And your father? He is not still with us?"

Smith shook his head. "Inspector Adams was lucky." He replied evenly. "My father was killed in the same raid."

"Pity." Crane said. "Good men, the both of them." He sighed and shook his head sadly. "The Yard didn't have many as good as them back then."

"Johnson was-" Lestrade broke off as Gregson, I was sure it was Gregson, kicked him again.

Gregson cleared his throat. "And I don't believe you've met Dr. Watson, one of our Police Surgeons." He went on hurriedly.

Crane turned to study me, and I was given the opportunity to fully measure the pale complexion and the dark, heavy lidded eyes and full lips. "Ah, yes, Dr. Watson." He said. "I understand Inspector Lestrade was responsible for your coming aboard at the Yard."

"Yes." I replied cautiously. Beside Gregson, Lestrade tensed. "He offered me a job with Scotland Yard shortly after my wife died."

"My condolences." Crane said with little warmth. "I must admit, it is interesting to meet you. I was actually looking over some files the other day, and I noticed that there was no actual mention of your qualifications for the job."

Gregson looked up. "He served in the Afghanistan War." The Inspector spoke up hastily. "We had consulted with him a few times in the past, and he had picked up on some of the Yard's methods, and with some instruction from-ahem-Lestrade and myself, he's actually on his way to becoming a first rate detective as well."

I was staring, I admit, and Holmes was about to contradict this brazen lie about the source of any meager talents I may have developed in the art of deduction, but this time it was _Lestrade_ who shifted, and Holmes winced and his jaw clicked shut, though he did fix the Inspector an evil glare, the kind which generally left those who committed offences against the law quaking in their boots.

Lestrade stoically ignored him.

Unaware of the silent war building between Holmes and Lestrade, Gregson was still trying to convince a skeptical Crane that I was an asset to the force. It was flattering; I'd had no idea that my presence actually meant enough to Gregson that he would actually speak out on my behalf.

"Well, we shall see." Crane finally said, and Gregson let it drop.

He didn't introduce Holmes, but turned to Jones and went back to a conversation the two had been having who knew how long ago, about the elderly being neglected by their families and children.

As if on cue, Hopkins and Bradstreet began discussing the price of milk, and Lestrade and the two Constables were swapping entertaining stories about Adams and Smith senior.

Holmes raised an eyebrow, but didn't resist when Bradstreet drew him into a conversation that had moved on from milk to meat prices. Jones answered Gregson's query and turned to me, while Gregson turned back to Crane to ask how he was settling in.

"Good to be rid of some of that blasted heat, isn't it?" Jones asked, and it took me a second to answer, being unused to exchanging pleasantries with this particular Inspector.

Jones had never been particularly fond of me, especially not since I had published _The Sign of Four_, in which he had made an appearance, and, as far as I knew, was not inclined to sit and discuss such trivialities as the weather with anyone.

He did his job, and we had on more than one occasion worked well enough together since I had officially begun working with the Yard. He had not hesitated to ask my opinion on a case recently, in fact, but it remained that any relationship between the two of us outside of the professional was strained at best, and Jones was not the type of person that was interested in making friends at work anyway.

As it was, I managed to reply that the cooler weather was a relief, and to stumble through a conversation that eventually led to me asking how his wife was.

He hesitated, a little surprised, I think, at the turn the conversation had taken. But he recovered, and managed to smile. "She's well enough, I suppose." He answered thoughtfully. "But it wears her out chasing the little ones around all day."

"Oh?" I was surprised. "I didn't realize you had children, Inspector."

"Jones." He corrected with a chuckle. "We aren't working. Lestrade isn't the only one who prefers not to bring his home life to work." He smiled easily. Jones could be friendly when he felt the need, it seemed. "But it just so happens I have two, a boy and a girl, both five years old and running Sarah ragged trying to keep up with them."

"They're healthy then?" I inquired.

"Aye, both healthy and fit and good looking." Jones agreed amiably. "Smart, too. They've been at me to teach them to read, but they don't want to sit still that long."

The conversation continued from there, and Jones and I talked more at that table than we had in all the years we'd known each other combined.

Lestrade eventually stood up, and mentioned that it was getting late, and that his wife would be expecting him. He excused himself and left.

His departure seemed some sort of signal, for the others soon followed suit. The Constables said goodnight and slipped out, followed by Hopkins a minute later.

Jones checked his watch and sighed. "I'd better be going as well." He said regretfully.

"We should all be going." Gregson conceded. "Nice of you to drop by, Superintendent." It was a hint to leave, and Crane actually took it, nodding pleasantly to us all before he headed for the door.

Bradstreet offered to walk Holmes and myself out, leaving Jones and Gregson to grumble as they returned the extra chairs to their proper places.

Holmes was silent until we reached the street. Instead of signaling for a cab he whirled around to glare at Inspector Bradstreet.

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me just _what is going on_?" He demanded sharply.

Long exposure to Holmes tended to leave the Inspectors somewhat immune to most anything Holmes could say to them, and Bradstreet was no exception. The sharpness in Holmes' voice, the raised eyebrow and steely glare, did little to intimidate the man.

He simply shrugged. "I only know bits and pieces, Mr. Holmes." He replied, but the innocent look he had been wearing all evening dropped, and his eyes were troubled. "Something's going on between Gregson and Lestrade, and they're the only ones who seem to understand just what." Another shrug. "Jones seems to be in on some of it, but you won't get anything out of him. Hopkins probably has a few guesses."

"But you don't know anything?" Holmes didn't believe that.

Bradstreet rolled his eyes. "I know it's a bad idea to get between Gregson and Lestrade. Whatever's going on, if they'd wanted me involved, they'd have told me, so it's in my best interest to stay out of it." He hesitated, but continued a second later. "It's got something to do with Crane. I know that much. And I know you two should probably watch yourselves around the Superintendent as well." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Good night, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson."

"Good night, Bradstreet." I replied. Holmes was lost in thought. He didn't utter another word for the duration of the trip home.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

We heard nothing more from any of the Inspectors for the rest of the weekend. Worse, Holmes still refused to discuss anything that had happened Friday night when we had gone out with the Inspectors, leaving me to worry through it all myself.

There was obviously something going on between Gregson and Lestrade. Bradstreet had admitted as much. Just _what_ was going on was beyond me, but whatever it was, I had never seen the two Inspectors so openly hostile towards each other in all the years I had known them.

There was something going on, too, with the new Superintendent, though I wasn't sure just what. It seemed to be affecting all the Inspectors, if their odd behavior had been any indication, but I had very little to go on there, and it was entirely possible there was another explanation for all this, and for the conversation Jones had forced himself into on _somebody's_ behalf Friday.

Then there was this case, and the fact that Lestrade had appeared to be trying to keep Holmes out of it while at the same time Hopkins seemed to want Holmes involved. It was confusing, to say the least, especially when Lestrade didn't seem to mind that Hopkins had taken us along Friday, and actually had seemed to be expecting something of the sort.

I wondered if it would do any good to just _ask_ Lestrade, but if he hadn't given me some sort of explanation yet it wasn't likely he'd give me any sort of answer that would clear up anything.

But here was a problem. Holmes, for all that he refused to talk about the case or about Friday's meeting, was getting tired of not getting any answers, and it would only be a matter of time before he confronted Lestrade, or Gregson, and demanded to know what was going on, just as he had with Bradstreet. I highly doubted that such a confrontation would be pleasant.

As the weekend passed and we heard no more on the matter, or from any of the Yarders at all, I resigned myself to the fact that they might have already solved the case without our help and tried to go about my business. I assisted Holmes with a case or two of his own, and his previously black mood seemed to have dissipated, for he even ventured to suggest that we might go out for a walk in the cool of Sunday evening.

I could not, however, shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong about the whole affair, nor could I quite get past the thought that Lestrade would normally at least have dropped by to tell me of the outcome of the case.

I considered stopping by the Yard myself to inquire on the matter, but recalled what Bradstreet had said about watching myself around Crane. I didn't know why the new Superintendent might have a problem with me, or Holmes, for that matter, but I knew that Bradstreet would not give such a warning lightly.

It was on Monday morning that the case once again came our way. A young lad knocked at our door around ten in the morning, and refused to give a message to Mrs. Hudson, but insisted instead upon speaking to "Mister 'Olmes an' the Doctor Watson, please."

Holmes regarded the young urchin on the step seriously. He was not, I realized, one of the Irregulars, though he wasn't much better off.

Blue eyes twinkled up at us. "I've a message for Mister 'Olmes an' the Doctor Watson. Is 'at you?"

"It is." Holmes replied briskly, and the boy nodded.

"Good. Inspector Hopkins would like ya ta come ta his house and speak wit' 'im, and I'm ta take ya there." The boy declared importantly. "Please." He added, a little belatedly.

Holmes favored the lad with a stern glance, and the boy fidgeted slightly. The lad forced himself to meet Holmes' gaze. "'E said you'd be doin' 'im a favor." He added. "It's important, or 'e wouldn't ask."

"All right." I said. "We'll go." Holmes sighed, but didn't argue. The boy grinned up at us.

"I'm ta take ya there, then, if yer ready." He said cheerfully.

The lad hailed a cab with the unease of someone who had never done so before, but managed it well. I guessed that Hopkins had coached him on what to do. If so, he had been thorough in his directions.

"Inspector Hopkins from Scotland Yard directed us to take a cab." The boy spoke carefully to the skeptical cabbie. "He said he'd compensate you for your trouble, and that if this isn't enough, then he'll cover the rest of it when we reach his home."

He held up a coin to the cabbie, who was less disapproving as he took the coin and examined it. "That should cover it." He said to the lad. "Climb aboard. Where to?"

The lad repeated the address carefully, and we set off. The cab was silent as we went, and the boy, though obviously not frightened of us, did not seem inclined to speak either, and I wondered if Hopkins had told him not to talk to us, or if I were simply worrying too much.

We reached our destination, and the boy dismounted and led us to the door of one of the apartments. "Here ya are!" He announced brightly.

Holmes reached into his pocket, not as unaware of the boy's state as one might think, and offered the boy a coin in return for his services.

The boy drew himself up proudly. "No thanks, Mister. Stanley asked a favor, and I won't take money for it."

Holmes was surprised, as was I, but he returned the coin to his pocket with an apology and thanked the boy for his help.

The lad favored Holmes with a cheeky grin. "If ya tell 'im I was good help, though, 'e might let me have a biscuit." He suggested impishly.

The door opened in front of us. "If ya was good help," Hopkins scolded the lad, "Mr. 'Olmes and Dr. Watson wouldn't still be standin' on the front step, but come in an' get ya one anyways. Just one, mind you." He added, as the child scampered in past him. "And mind the Missus!" He called after him.

Hopkins turned and nodded to both of us. "Glad you could make it. Come in."

We stepped after him through the door and followed him down the hall and into the kitchen area, where the lad had a biscuit in his hand and was eying the rest of the tray mournfully.

Hopkins laughed. "Go on, then, and make sure they're both gone before you make it home. Your Ma'd never believe you didn't steal them."

The lad beamed at him, took another biscuit, and made a break for the door, shouting a thank you as he went. Hopkins stared after him, a grin on his face, and shook his head in amusement.

Lestrade appeared a minute later. "I should have knocked." He apologized.

This brought a chuckle from Hopkins. "He didn't run you down, did he?" The younger Inspector asked.

"No." Lestrade assured him, and Hopkins grew serious. He pulled out a chair at the table and beckoned for us to do the same.

Once we were all seated, Hopkins delivered the news. "Another child's been found dead." He said soberly. "Last night. The parents filed a missing persons report this morning."

I shifted in my seat. "He was like the other?" I asked. Hopkins nodded. "Evans found him. Poor fellow ended up sick before we were through."

"We talked to the other boy's parents." Lestrade said to me. He still wasn't speaking directly to Holmes. "They said they didn't know what to do, that they kept hoping he come home, and it didn't occur to them at first to go to the Yard." He frowned.

"You don't think they were telling the truth." I guessed. Lestrade shook his head.

"It's possible it wouldn't occur to them, but not likely." Hopkins put in. "Unless it's a part of the city where children disappear everyday, parents are pretty quick to report when a child is missing."

"Have you talked to the second child's parents?" I asked, wishing Holmes weren't so insistent on not getting involved.

Lestrade shook his head. "Not yet. I'm on my way over there now." He shot Hopkins an apologetic glance. "I know it's your day off."

Hopkins snorted. "Because you never work on your day off." He commented, and Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Of course," Hopkins added, "I do have company. It'd be rude to just send them on their way."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Bring them along, then." He said with less annoyance than was necessary to be at all convincing.

Holmes opened his mouth, but Hopkins stopped him with a quick shake of his head behind Lestrade's back. Holmes scowled at the Inspector, but didn't verbalize whatever had been going through his mind. Instead he stalked down the hall after Lestrade and Hopkins, leaving me to follow.

A lovely young woman met us out in the hall. "I though you were off today." She said, eying Lestrade less than enthusiastically.

"I was." Hopkins replied. "There's been a new development."

"Oh." The woman replied. "I'll see you Friday, then."

Hopkins frowned. "Friday?" He repeated, puzzled. The woman sighed, irritation furrowing her brows and pursing her lips. She was a beautiful young woman, even when displeased.

"I told you I would be leaving tonight to visit my mother." She reminded him.

Hopkins' frown deepened. "Your mother? I didn't realize…"

The woman shook her head, exasperated. "We patched things up at Christmas. I told you I needed some space."

"Right, right." Hopkins nodded. "And you'll be back Friday." The woman nodded. "Well, have a good time, I suppose."

"I will." She said.

Hopkins nodded, and turned to go, but stopped. "I don't believe you've met Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson." He said to the woman.

"Charmed." She said quickly, and only, it seemed to me, to be polite.

"You remember Inspector Lestrade." He added, and she nodded. Hopkins then turned to Holmes and myself. "This is Lucy, my wife." He introduced the woman.

"Madam." I offered her a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Certainly." She replied. "However, I have kept you from your work long enough. Good day." She went past us and into the kitchen, and Hopkins wasted no time in leading us back outside.

Lestrade wordlessly patted the other Inspector on the shoulder as we stepped out onto the street. Hopkins started, then ducked his head sheepishly.

"We've managed to work things out, mostly." Hopkins told him. Lestrade nodded, and Hopkins stepped forward to hail a cab, leaving me to wonder what would make Lestrade so openly sympathetic to the lad's apparent marriage problems.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: Bear with me, guys. I promise you'll get some answers soon.  


* * *

Holmes groaned as the second child's mother burst into tears. Hopkins fidgeted guiltily. Lestrade paid no notice to either. He went right on asking questions.

"Why did you wait until the child had been missing for four days?" He asked, not for the first, second, or even third time.

"We panicked." The father replied wearily. "We didn't think to. I should've, I know, but I just wasn't thinking clearly, and neither was my wife."

"But you searched the area." Lestrade pressed. The man nodded. "Did you ask neighbors for help? Friends?" The man shook his head.

"I was afraid to admit that he was missing again." He confessed. "He ran away about a year ago, and we had all our neighbors and friends and family helping look for him."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You also went to Scotland Yard." He challenged, and the father flinched. "I was the one that took down the information. Inspector Hopkins here found the lad." He leaned closer to the father. "Your boy is dead now." He said flatly. "Maybe if you had come to us sooner, he would still be alive. Why did you wait?" When the man didn't answer, Lestrade actually stood and walked away, towards the window.

"Your little boy wasn't the first." He told the couple, his voice low. "There was another, a couple days ago. His parents waited until it was too late to come to us too. That means it likely doesn't end here. Someone else's child may be taken. Someone else's child may die. Anything you could tell us might help prevent another death."

The mother looked up then, to her husband, and he nodded. She stood and left the room, and the man turned back to Lestrade.

"He was kidnapped." He explained. "We received a letter that evening, after he disappeared. He was being held for ransom, and we had four days to pay or they'd kill my son. The letter said not to go to the Yard, or they'd kill him anyway."

Lestrade returned to his seat. "Do you still have the letter?" He asked.

"My wife went to get it." The father said. "You can have it. I don't know if it will help."

The wife returned with the letter, and handed it to Lestrade. He read over it, then handed it to Hopkins, who glanced over it quickly before offering it to Holmes. Holmes wouldn't look at it, so Hopkins passed it on to me.

_Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,_

_We have taken your child. Rest assured that he is both safe and well, __for now__. However, in exchange for his safe return we expect payment in the form of one hundred pounds. The amount is to be wrapped into a green handkerchief and left with the barkeep at Mr. Thompson's favorite tavern until called for. You have four days to pay the sum or little Tommy will not be returned to you alive. Do __not__ attempt to contact Scotland Yard if you wish to see your son alive. _

I stared at the letter for a moment, to see what I could make of it. It was handwritten, but of course, the writing was not familiar to me. The writer was right handed, I could see, and his handwriting was neat. The paper was inexpensive, but still of a good quality, and common enough.

"Was there an envelope?" I asked, curious. Holmes nodded approvingly, and I found myself hoping that perhaps he might involve himself in this case after all.

The father shook his head. "There was, but we didn't keep it. I didn't think it would be important."

Hopkins shrugged. "We might have been able to learn something from it." He said gently. "But what's done is done." He looked towards Lestrade. "Do we have any more questions?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Thank you for your time." He said. "And the truth. I'm truly sorry for your loss." He told them solemnly.

"Thank you." The wife spoke for the first time since Lestrade's badgering had brought her to tears. "You will find who's responsible?"

Lestrade's smile was neither warm nor pleasant. It was downright frightening. "We're going to try." He told her.

We excused ourselves and the mourning mother showed us the way out. After she had closed the door behind us Lestrade thanked Hopkins for his time, apologized for interrupting us, and headed off down the street so fast it made my head spin.

"What-?" Holmes began to ask, Hopkins shook his head.

"It's a mess, Mr. Holmes. A great big, bloody mess." Was all the explanation he offered.

"Hopkins." I tried. The man licked his lips nervously, as if considering what to tell us.

"Lestrade's having a rough time down at the Yard." He finally said. "I'm not at liberty to say anything more than that. I'm sorry."

"It has something to do with Gregson." I guessed, and Hopkins nodded.

"You saw that."

"It has something to do with us." I added.

Hopkins fidgeted guiltily. "I've been told to keep my mouth shut, Doctor." He said. "I'm only an accomplice as far as this case goes. I don't know about anything else."

I closed my eyes, and rubbed my temple wearily. "Can you tell us why Lestrade doesn't want Holmes on the case, at least?"

Hopkins swallowed nervously. "It's not that." He said evasively.

"What do you mean?" I asked. Maybe at last _some_ of the questions that had been bothering me would be answered.

Hopkins sighed. "All right." He gave in. "If Lestrade didn't want Mr. Holmes on the case, he wouldn't be on the case. And he certainly wouldn't be rude enough to ask you for help in front of Mr. Holmes if he didn't want him involved." He looked at me as if hoping what he had said had cleared everything up.

Holmes' expression abruptly cleared. "Someone else doesn't want me on the case." He said. He received a nod from the Inspector in reply.

"Who?" I asked, but Hopkins was finished.

"Good day, gentlemen. Thank you for your time." He said with a tip of his hat and a bow, and he turned and headed down the street, leaving Holmes and myself just standing there.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	9. Chapter 9

"Crane?" I asked as we returned to the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. Holmes nodded as he settled into his armchair and went for his pipe. "But why?"

"The current Superintendent would not be the first to take offense at the idea of an 'amateur detective' assisting the Yard." Holmes informed me. He frowned as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe. "This would, however, be the first time Inspector Lestrade has actually gone along with such an opinion. In the past he has simply ignored warnings not to associate with me."

"What's changed, then?" I wondered aloud, not in the least surprised by the thought of Lestrade being told not to ask Holmes for help and doing it anyway. "He still wants your help, if Hopkins is right, and there's certainly been a lot of effort put into making sure you're present when the case is discussed. Why would he suddenly be working so hard to appear to be _not_ asking you for help?"

Holmes shook his head irritably as he lit his pipe and threw the match into the fireplace. "Whatever it is, I am certain it is related to other strange occurrences involving the Yard and its people." He informed me solemnly. "But that has little to do with the case at hand, Watson. Would you be so kind as to tell me all you can about the bodies of the children that were found? There may be some useful information to be gleaned."

Reassured and relieved, now that my friend was definitely on the case, I settled back in my chair and cast my mind back to that first body. I began going over the details slowly and with great care, lest I leave out or forget some important detail.

Holmes sat and listened, never once uttering a word or interrupting to ask for clarification on some point, as I related the gruesome facts of the two boys' deaths and went on to outline, to the best of my ability, any conversation I may have had with either Hopkins or Lestrade that Holmes would not have been privy to.

There was a knock on the door as I finished, and Mrs. Hudson was showing Inspector Jones into the sitting room. Holmes straightened abruptly, and I tried to mask my surprise as the Inspector thanked the landlady for showing him in and took a seat on the couch without waiting for an invitation.

"Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?" Holmes asked, curious. Even he was having trouble predicting what would come of our next encounter with Scotland Yard.

"Yes." Jones answered with a sharp nod. "You can mind your own bloody business."

I was completely nonplussed; Holmes didn't seem to be doing much better. "I beg your pardon?" He managed.

Jones favored him with a disapproving look. "You've been talking to Bradstreet, and asking questions." He clarified. "Hopkins too, I don't doubt." He turned to eye me as well. "And I'm sure you mean well, Watson, but let me make this perfectly clear. What is going on between Lestrade and Gregson is none of your affair, so stay out of it. The same goes for the situation between Lestrade and Crane _and_ anything else going on at the Yard that doesn't have to do with the case you aren't helping on, Holmes. Stay away from the Yard, and stay away from Crane, and stop asking questions. Is that clear?"

I stared at Jones. Holmes fairly glared at him. Jones nodded, and offered us a smile, and got to his feet. "Good day, gentlemen." He said. "I'll see myself out."

And with that, he was gone.

I looked over at Holmes, hoping that that conversation had made more sense to him than it had to me, but judging by the look on his face he was just as confused as I was.

"What on earth?" I finally managed.

As if I had broken a spell, Holmes leapt from his chair and was across the room in an instant and heading out the door.

"Holmes?" I asked, uncertainly.

"I don't know what that was about." Holmes called over his shoulder. "But I intend to find out."

I sighed and started after him. "How?" I asked, ignoring the fact that he was about to go and do exactly what he had just been told not to. He reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for me to catch up before answering.

"I am going to talk to Lestrade." He informed me. He turned and opened the door, waving me through, and stepped out onto the street behind me.

"He's working, Holmes." I reminded him. "And you aren't exactly welcome down at the Yard, if he's even there, which is unlikely, and when he's on a case he sometimes goes days without making it home."

_That _stopped Holmes in his tracks. "How do you know that?" He asked, curious, and in spite of everything I was hard put to refrain from smirking at the man.

"Observation." I said, and Holmes raised an eyebrow. "He certainly didn't tell me that himself." I pointed out.

Holmes conceded that much before starting back down the street. "We shall try his office first, and if he is not there, we will have to look elsewhere for him." He informed me.

I didn't bother trying to argue. It would have done no good. Instead I followed my friend into what might possibly end up being a rather unpleasant mess.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade was not in his office, a fact which did not surprise me. It did, however, seem to upset Holmes. He glared at the Inspector's desk as if it were personally responsible for the man's absence.

I shifted uncomfortably, wanting to get out of here quickly, preferably before someone found us sneaking around Scotland Yard. It had been extremely good fortune that we had not been seen so far, and such luck would only last so long.

"What are you two doing in here?" I nearly jumped out of my skin as the sharp demand cut through the air. I whirled around to see Inspector Gregson standing in Lestrade's doorway.

He never gave us a chance to speak. "Let's go. Now. Both of you, and no arguing." He snapped, and I didn't hesitate. There were times, admittedly only rarely, when it was best to just go along with whatever Gregson said and not argue with him. I could tell this was one of those times.

Gregson started off at a speed that was more akin to Holmes' lengthy stride than his own and led us down the hall without so much as a glance behind to be certain we were following.

I was surprised when he stopped outside of the room where autopsies were done, and even more so when he knocked oddly on the door-two quick raps, a pause, and then two more quick raps.

"Come in, then. What is it?" I recognized Lestrade's voice as Gregson opened the door and peeked in.

"I found something of yours." Gregson announced in a low, almost sing-song voice.

"Oh, I hope not." Lestrade replied absently as Holmes and I followed Gregson inside. The other Inspector was bent over the table, examining something. I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what it was. "Care to have a look?"

"Certainly not." Gregson looked a little pale. "It was bad enough the first time. I've no desire to see it again."

Holmes and I remained where we were, frozen by the sudden change in behavior in both men. It was something I did not understand, yet, and so I remained silent, watching. Holmes too was content, for the moment, to wait.

Silence settled between the two men: an awkward, tense silence.

It was Lestrade who spoke first. "Owen? That was his name?" He asked, and Gregson nodded. "I'm sorry." Lestrade added. "I know you were fond of the boy." Gregson shrugged unconvincingly. For another moment neither of them spoke.

Then Gregson cleared his throat. "Anyway, I found these two snooping around in your office." He said, nodding towards us, and Lestrade looked up from the corpse.

Surprise flickered in his eyes before he waved us over. "You don't have to stay." He said to Gregson-a not too subtle hint to leave.

Gregson didn't need to be told twice. He spun on his heel and was out of there in a flash, leaving me there alone with Holmes and the man he wished to interrogate.

"Another one?" I asked, before Holmes could say anything. Lestrade nodded.

"Come have a look." He said, and I approached the table, Holmes only a step or two behind me.

Two brutal murders were enough preparation that I did not react visibly to the body on the table, but Holmes had not actually seen the other two. He stopped, and stared, and swore before he recovered himself. The sight of what had once been a young boy had thoroughly shaken my friend.

"Gregson found him." Lestrade explained quietly as I began examining the body on the table. "Recognized him, though I have no idea how. He wants to be there when we talk to the mother."

It was as if the war between Gregson and Lestrade had suddenly ended. "He knew the boy?" I asked uncertainly. The sudden ceasefire was just as alarming as the fighting had been. Perhaps even more so.

"Yes." Lestrade answered. "From what I understand Owen-the boy- didn't have a father at home, and Gregson tried to keep an eye on him."

I would not have expected as much from Gregson. It made me realize how little I actually knew about the men I worked with. I probably knew Lestrade best out of the bunch, and how much did I really know about _him_?

I forced my mind back to the matters at hand. "Did the mother file a report when the lad went missing?" I asked.

"No." Lestrade replied. "We looked. And Gregson is certain that if the mother had involved the Yard even in the slightest, she would have at least gone to him. We're going to pay her a visit tomorrow." He added. "You know where Gregson lives, right?"

"I know the place." I said. I had been there before. Holmes nodded in agreement, and it occurred to me to wonder, if he had decided to help, why he was being so quiet. I hoped he wasn't simply waiting for the chance to interrogate Lestrade.

Now was not the time.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Holmes waited until we were out in the hall, our examination of the newest victim finished, to return to our reason for being here.

"I want some answers, Lestrade." Holmes rounded on the Inspector as he closed the door behind us, leaving poor Owen's body inside and all alone.

Lestrade did not seem particularly surprised by the announcement, or perturbed. "Of course you do, Mr. Holmes." He said agreeably, and Holmes raised an eyebrow, waiting. Lestrade let him wait for about a minute before speaking again. "Unfortunately, you will have to wait for them. If you will excuse me, gentleman."

He turned to go, but Holmes was too quick for him. He merely stepped around to block the Inspector's path. "What the devil is going on between you and Gregson?" Holmes demanded, more than a little miffed by Lestrade's insistence that he would have to wait for the answers to his questions. "For that matter, what's going on between you and Crane?"

Lestrade blinked. Then he checked his watch. "I am off duty now, Mr. Holmes." He said, instead of answering the question. "I would like to be on time for dinner, for once." He started to move around the detective, but Holmes was quick to block his path once more.

Lestrade sighed, and actually allowed himself to look rather weary. "Come on, then." He said, somewhat brusquely, and tried to step past Holmes again. "You don't need to be seen lurking around here, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes frowned but followed the Inspector, albeit with a rather puzzled air about him. I fell into step behind Holmes, and we traversed the halls of Scotland Yard in silence.

Lestrade let us out of Scotland Yard and towards the street. I was surprised when he hailed a cab; the Inspector usually preferred to walk unless he was in a hurry. Nonetheless, we climbed into the cab, and Lestrade gave the driver his address.

The ride was spent in a distinctly uncomfortable silence. It seemed Lestrade had no desire to offer any explanations until we had made it to his home. I wondered if he thought Holmes might be less outspoken about his distaste with all this in front of the man's family. My next thought was that perhaps Lestrade thought that he himself would be more careful of what he said around his family.

Holmes remained quiet as well, though not happily, and the tension built as we drew closer to our destination. It was reminiscent of the tension that builds before the sudden release of a thunder storm.

I took the opportunity to study the man that I had seen far too little of since Thursday. Lestrade was tired, and while it was true that he rarely operated on a full, uninterrupted night's sleep, he currently looked more worn than was usual for him.

He was also stressed, unless I was mistaken. He sat in his seat as if he would rather be anywhere else than there. He was still, but tense. His dark eyes were not entirely focused, his thoughts somewhere else, possibly on his case. There was no indication that he even remembered Holmes and I were there as he stared out past the window.

He pulled himself back to the present with a shake of his head as the cab slowed to a halt. He was up in a flash, and stepped down out of the cab and onto the street. He paid the driver and paused on the walk, waiting for Holmes and myself to follow.

Lestrade led us up to the door of his abode and on inside. He stopped short in the sitting room, however, staring at the young man seated on the couch.

I looked past the Inspector to see a man with light hair, blue eyes, and a broad, friendly face. He looked up as we started to enter the room and stood, his eyes going from Lestrade to Holmes to me before finally settling on Lestrade.

"Good to finally get to meet you, sir." The man said, offering the Inspector his hand. Lestrade accepted it, though not without some slight wariness.

"You too." He replied, with only the slightest hint of uncertainty in his voice. Lestrade released the other man's hand, and they stood there for a few awkward seconds.

"Thomas." The man offered his name. "Thomas Addison." When Lestrade did not immediately react, he continued. "We missed each other last time; I believe your wife said you were working on a murder case."

Lestrade nodded very slowly. "Thomas Addison." He repeated. Then his expression cleared. "Thomas. Right. You were coming over for dinner tonight."

The man nodded. If he realized that Lestrade had forgotten him, he did not seem bothered by the fact. He offered the Inspector a smile. "Your daughter speaks very highly of you, Mr. Lestrade. I wasn't sure whether or not to be nervous about finally meeting you."

"Only if your intentions towards my daughter are less than honorable." Lestrade replied, completely serious.

Addison laughed as Lestrade started in the direction of the kitchen. "You have nothing to worry about there, sir." He assured the Inspector.

Lestrade paused at the door and looked back. "Mr. Addison, this is Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. If you will excuse me for a moment..." He murmured as he disappeared.

Addison settled back onto the couch. "So he forgot." He chuckled, half to himself. "At least he made it this time." He turned his attention to Holmes and myself. "I understand you work with Mr. Lestrade?" He asked.

I nodded. "Holmes is a consulting detective." I explained as I took a seat on the couch as well as Holmes commandeered the armchair. "When Scotland Yard requires a little extra assistance, they go to him."

"And you're a Doctor?" Addison asked. "The younger Miss Lestrade mentioned you when I was here for dinner last time."

"I am." I agreed. "I won't ask your profession; Lestrade will probably get to that soon enough."

"Probably." Addison agreed amiably. "So _should _I be nervous about meeting him? Amy-that is, Miss Lestrade-talks about him as if he were a teddy bear, but that is obviously not the case."

I had to smile at that. The other Yarders would have quite a laugh at Lestrade's expense if they ever heard such a ridiculous comparison. "Lestrade is definitely _not_ a teddy bear." I confirmed his assessment. "However, I don't think you'll have much to worry about as long as you treat his daughter properly. You should probably stay away from crime as well." I added, as an afterthought. "He has no tolerance for law breakers."

Addison pretended to consider that. "That shouldn't be too hard." He decided, as Lestrade rejoined us.

"Addison." The Inspector said the man's name once more, taking a seat in the rocking chair that was also by the fire. "Do you have a brother?"

Addison nodded. "Timothy. He's a year younger than I am."

Lestrade considered this information. "You're twenty-four, then?" Another nod. "Your brother seems like he could use a dose of common sense." He commented. "I hope you have a better head on your shoulders."

Addison shrugged. "I hope so too. He's a good man, but he doesn't always think." A pause. "May I ask how you know my brother, sir?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I've run into him a couple of times down at the Yard."

Addison's eyes widened as something clicked. "You're _Inspector_ Lestrade." He realized. He was also suddenly a shade paler. "I didn't realize…" The young man trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

He was saved by the arrival of the young woman who was the reason for his presence. Amy took one look at Addison before turning to eye her father. "You aren't scaring him too badly, are you, Da?" She teased.

Lestrade shook his head. "I should hope not." He replied. "He has nothing to worry about so far."

Amy smiled as Addison's face resumed some of its normal coloring. "Anyway, dinner's ready, if you would care to join us." She announced.

Dinner that night was a poor imitation of how dinner with the Lestrades usually was. Holmes was not entirely comfortable, I realized, nor was he pleased with yet another delay in receiving some sort of answer from Lestrade. Addison seemed to fit right in with the women of the family, but Lestrade was in no mood for light, getting-to-know-you conversation, and he had apparently promised not to put the young man sitting across from his oldest daughter through any sort of interrogation tonight.

It also seemed, though maybe it was only my imagination, that conversation between Elisabeth and Lestrade himself was somewhat strained. It could have been only that Lestrade was quieter tonight than usual, or that he had nearly forgotten dinner and had brought Holmes and myself home with him as well.

A knock at the door sounded just as Addison had finally managed to involve Lestrade in a conversation. Elisabeth tensed for a split second, then excused herself and went to answer it.

She returned a few minutes later, followed by Inspector Gregson. She was not entirely capable of hiding her displeasure as she informed her husband that the other Inspector wished to speak with him.

Gregson didn't even give Lestrade time to stand up but went straight to him and leaned forward. He whispered something into his fellow Inspector's ear, and Lestrade turned in his seat to shoot Gregson a look.

"Excuse me." He said abruptly, standing up from the table. "This shouldn't take long."

"Where are you going?" It was Holmes who asked, though he wasn't the only person at the table who wanted to know.

"We're taking a walk." Gregson answered, which told us absolutely nothing, and the two men left.

Elisabeth didn't quite sigh as she faked a smile and apologized to Addison. "It's his job." She explained. "Scotland Yard calls, and he answers."

I wasn't so sure, this time, that it _was_ his job that was calling him away.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

We finished dinner and Elisabeth shooed Holmes, Addison, and myself into the sitting room while they cleared the table. Addison offered to help, but was promptly thanked for his offer and refused.

"Do you want to try to wait for Lestrade?" I asked Holmes quietly as we followed Addison out of the kitchen. "We might do better to try again tomorrow."

Holmes shook his head. "I want some answers. He may find some other way to deflect us tomorrow." He told me decisively, and settled back into the armchair.

Addison settled on the couch again. I hesitated, but eventually also took a seat on the couch.

The room grew quiet. The three of us sat there in silence, not entirely certain what to say to each other.

It was not entirely uncomfortable, however, aside from Holmes' impatience as we waited for Lestrade. I was used to long periods of silence with Holmes, and Addison did not seem put out by the lack of conversation, so we were comfortable enough as we waited for either Lestrade to return or the women to finish in the kitchen.

Lestrade had not returned by the time Elisabeth and the girls joined us. They talked with Addison for a while, but he seemed to realize that something was not quite right, for it was not long before he excused himself.

Amy walked him to the door and said good night, and then she and Olivia wasted little time in heading for bed, both claiming they were rather tired.

"He forgot." Elisabeth said, as soon as the girls were gone. I did not ask who she spoke of. I did not need to.

"He did." I agreed, offering her an apologetic smile. "He seems rather preoccupied with his work lately. How is he, really?"

Elisabeth shrugged. "He's been busy. We haven't talked much." She tried to smile, but didn't quite manage it.

I frowned. "Are _you_ all right, Elisabeth?" I asked.

The woman sighed. "I'll be fine, John." She said, rubbing her forehead wearily. "Thank you for asking."

I considered pressing the issue, but the fact that Elisabeth had declined to say what was bothering her meant that she did not care to discuss it, at least not with me. I therefore let the issue drop, but filed it away with all the other things involving Lestrade that concerned me.

It was perhaps half an hour after Addison had left that the Inspector finally returned, mercifully without Gregson. He looked from me to Holmes and finally to his wife, and sighed.

"You want an explanation." He said wearily, collapsing onto the couch next to me.

"I do." Holmes affirmed.

Lestrade nodded, and looked at his wife. "And you deserve one." Elisabeth didn't smile, but raised an eyebrow at her husband.

He rubbed his face with his hands as he tried to figure out where to start. We waited, trying with limited success to be patient. Even Holmes seemed content to give the man time to think, now that he knew he was going to get the answers to his questions.

"Superintendent Crane has heard of you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade finally began, "and was less than pleased to hear of the Yard's renewed association with you." He folded his hands together in front of his face as he continued, more openly agitated than I had seen him for some time. "He announced shortly after your return that the Yard has no need of your assistance, and that anyone found to be consulting with you on any case will be severely reprimanded." He paused then, as if to give Holmes time to comment.

He did. "You've been warned not to associate with me before, Lestrade, and it's never made any difference to you. What makes this time any different?"

Lestrade hesitated. "Past Superintendents valued me highly enough as an Inspector not to dismiss me over a trifle." He admitted.

"Crane doesn't think he needs you?" I demanded. Lestrade shrugged.

"He's a fool, then." Elisabeth noted coolly. "But he can't fire you just for that, Giles."

"No," Lestrade agreed slowly, "he couldn't, if it _were_ just that." He grimaced, but reluctantly explained. "The Superintendent doesn't think I've been pulling my weight down at the Yard." He said grimly.

"Why? Because of your arm?" Elisabeth demanded. "That's ridiculous! I don't know how he would even know about it."

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "Did Gregson mention it?" I asked. Lestrade blinked.

"What?" He asked. Then his expression cleared. "Gregson isn't out to get me, Doctor." He assured me. "No, there was an incident down at the Yard. It doesn't help that the others are still trying to coddle me." He grumbled.

Holmes looked confused. I made a mental note to fill him in the accident that had nearly cost Lestrade his right arm later.

"Crane didn't like you when you were Inspectors together." Elisabeth recalled. "If it's the same Crane."

"It is." Lestrade confirmed.

"How serious is this?" I wanted to know. I answered my own question. "Serious enough that you been trying to make it look as if you were trying to keep Holmes out of it." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, but didn't comment.

"You couldn't be blamed if Hopkins invited us somewhere and we just happened to be there when you showed up." I realized.

Holmes waited, but Lestrade remained silent. "How does Gregson fit into all this?" He asked the Inspector.

Lestrade sighed. "That-I can't explain all of it, Mr. Holmes." He said apologetically. "Not yet. Suffice it to say that things are nowhere near as bad between the two of us as it seems."

That was somewhat reassuring, but it still left me worried.

"What does Crane have against Watson?" Holmes demanded. I looked up, surprised. Lestrade let loose another long sigh.

"The Strand." Lestrade offered.

"His stories?" Holmes replied. Lestrade nodded.

"Crane thinks poorly of you, Mr. Holmes, so any association the Doctor has with you is, in his mind, a strike against him."

"Which is why you and Gregson told Crane that Watson was learning from you." Holmes said flatly.

Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably and his face colored. "I do apologize for that." He told Holmes. "We want to keep the Doctor, if we can." He cleared his throat. "We were also trying to keep the attention off of you."

"Understandable, I suppose." Holmes conceded. "So in summary, you've been running yourself ragged trying to prove to the Superintendent that you can still do your job while trying to hide the fact that I'm helping you with a case and you and Gregson are faking your own private little war. Is that about right?

"More or less." Lestrade mumbled. He shot his wife a look that suggested that she, at least, would be hearing more later. "That's really all I can tell you right now. I hope it's enough."

Holmes frowned. He was still not entirely pleased. "It will have to be." He said at last, after several minutes' consideration. "When do you plan on speaking with the mother of the latest victim?"

Lestrade relaxed minutely. "First thing tomorrow morning." He said. "If you care to be in front of Gregson's home at around eight, I will see you then."

"What happened to pretending not to want my help?" Holmes quipped, still a bit miffed with the Inspector for what he had put us through.

Lestrade seemed to feel it was fair, however. "I'm trying to find a murderer." He said. "Hopefully before he kills again. Crane wants rid of me anyway, so I might as well save him the trouble of finding something else to pick at." He retorted. "I'm through playing his games."

"Tomorrow morning then." Holmes said briskly, rising to his feet.

Lestrade and I followed suit. The Inspector escorted us to the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes. Doctor."

"Goodnight, Lestrade." I replied as Holmes stepped out onto the walk. For a moment I thought I saw uncertainty in the Inspector's eyes, but it was gone before I could be certain it was there or figure out the reason for it.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	13. Chapter 13

Gregson and Lestrade were in midst of a heated, if also muted, argument when Holmes and I arrived at the former's home. Gregson saw us coming and his mouth snapped shut. Lestrade didn't bother looking, but was also suddenly silent.

Expressions of displeasure cleared from both their faces as Gregson nodded to both Holmes and myself in greeting. "Ready?" He asked as we stopped in front of them.

"Are you?" I asked gently. This was not just another murder, just another death, for the Inspector.

Gregson scoffed. "Come along, then." He said, not answering the question. He set off down the street, leaving us to either follow or remain standing around his front door like a bunch of fools.

Holmes did not hesitate to take off after the man, but Lestrade waited until I had started after him and fell into step with me. The fact that it took me a second to adjust was an indication of how wrong things had been between the two of us since this case had started.

It had been nothing unusual in the past year or so for Lestrade to walk with me while we worked together, or to adjust his pace to match mine. This return to what had become normal was both reassuring and slightly unsettling, though I could not quite understand the reason for the latter.

"I hope you didn't get in too much trouble for taking us home last night." I said quietly. Lestrade shrugged.

"I think Lizzie was just glad that I'd made it home." He confessed. "She wasn't pleased that I'd forgotten about Addison, though."

"He seems nice." I offered.

"It would seem so." Lestrade replied noncommittally.

The mother's home was perhaps a block down the street from Gregson's. He stepped up to the door as Lestrade and I caught up with them, knocked, and waited.

"Ginny," Gregson greeted the tired, worn woman who opened the door. She looked up at him, but did not reply to the familiar greeting.

Gregson sighed. "This is Inspector Lestrade." He introduced the man. "We need to ask you a few questions about your son."

Her face crumpled, her body began to shake, and the tears began to fall. Gregson caught the woman as she swayed and pulled her close; she buried her face in his chest.

"Shhh." He murmured softly, holding her close. "There now, Ginny." The woman sobbed something unintelligible into his shirt, and he patted her back and began maneuvering the broken mother into her home.

I stared; Gregson was not someone I would have labeled as sympathetic, but perhaps it was simply in his dealings at the Yard that he projected a lack of caring for those about him. I did not know the man outside of work, so I could not have said if this concern for others was normal or not.

Lestrade did not seem surprised; he quietly followed Gregson inside, motioning for Holmes and me to come along as well.

Gregson had led the woman to a seat on the couch and was currently sitting there, allowing her to cry herself out. Lestrade had disappeared.

Holmes stood there uncertainly. I moved to sit on the other side of the distraught woman, to see if there were anything I could do for her.

"He was a good boy, Tobias." The woman was whimpering. "A good boy. He never ran with that crowd, not since the first time."

"I know." Gregson said soothingly. "Owen was a good boy, Ginny. I know that."

"Why?" She demanded. "Why would somebody do this?"

"Because someone's nothing but a piece of scum, Ginny." Gregson spat. "That's why." He looked up as Lestrade appeared from what must have been the kitchen, carrying a cup of tea. "Now sit up, there's a good girl." He told her gently, easing her back from him. "Here's a cup of tea, Ginny. It'll do you good."

The woman reluctantly accepted the cup, but showed no inclination towards actually drinking it. "Inspector Lestrade is looking for the man responsible." Gregson told the grieving mother. "He needs to ask you a few questions, Ginny."

The woman sniffed. "You found him, why didn't they put you on the case?" She wanted to know. Gregson grimaced.

Lestrade sighed. "Because your boy wasn't the first." He admitted.

The woman stared at him. "What do you mean?" She asked, her voice suddenly flat. "There were others?'

Lestrade nodded. "This is the third." He said wearily.

"And you haven't done anything." The woman accused, grief taking over and dispelling what was left of the woman's reason. Angrily she threw the only thing she was holding.

Lestrade didn't even try to avoid the cup of tea, and he didn't seem surprised when the woman threw herself at him and shoved him backwards towards the wall. He caught her as she starting swinging wildly at him and wordlessly held her as she wore herself out, alternating between trying to get loose and flailing rather ineffectively at his chest and arms.

Gradually she swayed, and it was Lestrade who caught the woman and held her protectively. She tensed, as if to start struggling anew, and Lestrade took her by the shoulders and stepped back from her.

"Look at me!" He snapped; the woman instinctively followed the order delivered in a voice that few would consider disobeying. His voice softened as he went on. "I'm sorry about your son." He told her, his voice low and urgent. "It doesn't matter if I say that I am doing everything within my power to find who's responsible, it doesn't change the fact that your son is dead and should not be."

He took a breath. "And having a member of the police tell you he's sorry for your loss is entirely insignificant. Having anyone tell you they're sorry is, but the police, especially someone you don't even know, can't even come close to helping."

"But I will offer you what little consolation I can." He told her grimly, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "I will find the piece of filth responsible before he strikes again, and I will see him hang. I give you my word on that."

The woman stared at him. Then she sniffed, and whispered, "They sent a letter after my boy disappeared. I'll go get it."

She eased herself out of Lestrade's grip and retreated from the room. Gregson was across the room and offering Lestrade a handkerchief and muttering about the woman being out of her head with grief.

Lestrade started, and shook his head as if coming out of a dream. "It's only tea, Tobias." He said absently as he pulled out his own handkerchief. He dabbed at the tea that was dripping from both his face and his shirt, and Gregson looked uncomfortable.

Lestrade noticed. "Come off it." He snapped. "She's lost her child, Gregson, and that hits hard even if it's not murder. Likely he was the only family she had, too, so she's been by herself in this house with only memories of a child she'll never see again to keep her company."

The room was silent in the wake of Lestrade's outburst. Gregson was staring at the man as if he had never seen him before. Holmes looked as if he didn't know what to think.

I wasn't sure what to think myself.

The woman returned with an envelope in hand and held it out to Lestrade. He pulled himself together and took it, thanking her and suggesting she take a seat. "I just need to ask you a few questions." He said softly, opening the envelope and removing the letter from inside.

He offered the envelope to Holmes, who examined it thoroughly before passing it on to me.

It was a plain, white envelope, inexpensive though not cheap. It was made of smooth paper rather than coarse, and the front was unmarked. I turned it over, then brought it closer and sniffed it to confirm what I had thought I smelled. I had.

There was the scent, though admittedly faint, of ladies' perfume.

Lestrade passed on the letter. It was almost identical to the other we had seen. The writing was the same, as was, in most places, the wording.

I passed the envelope and the letter to Gregson as Lestrade turned his attention to the woman before us.

"When did you realize your son was missing?" Lestrade asked with more gentleness than was usual for him.

"Four days ago." She answered tiredly. "I found the letter slipped under the door the next morning."

"Why didn't you go to the Yard?" Lestrade asked.

The woman shrugged. "I didn't think they would help. I'm an unmarried mother, Mr. Lestrade, and I've had a brush or two with Scotland Yard in the past. Owen'd had a run-in with them once before as well."

Lestrade did not ask for clarification. "Why didn't you ask Gregson for help?" He wanted to know. "He would have tried to help your boy. Surely you knew that."

The woman looked away, refusing to look at anyone in the room. "I was afraid. The letter said if I went to Scotland Yard they'd kill my son. I don't have the money to pay them. I just-I-" The woman started crying again.

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged a look. "I'm going to send Heather over to stay with you for a while, Ginny." He told the woman softly. She shook her head.

"You don't need to be alone." Lestrade said, still gentle. "You may think it would be better that way, but it only makes it worse."

Anger flared up again. "Don't act like you know what I'm going through, Inspector!" The woman snarled at him.

Lestrade didn't quite flinch. He did not look away from the woman's accusing glare. "I know what it's like to lose a child, miss, and I can assure you that being left alone to sit and wonder why you're alive and your child is not, or to try and think of something, anything you could have done differently to change what happened, or even to hope that you're just imagining things, that any second you'll hear your child, or see them, that any second you'll turn and find that they are alive is not going to help anything. Good evening."

He turned and left without another word. Gregson sighed. "I'm going to send Heather over, Ginny." This time the woman did not argue. She was still staring after the departed Inspector. Gregson turned to Holmes and myself. "Gentlemen?" He inquired, gesturing towards the door.

We followed him outside. "Lestrade will be headed towards my home." Gregson suggested. "We can talk there, if you'd like."

We started down the street, the silence weighing heavily on us, my mind troubled by what I had just witnessed.

"What happened back there, Gregson?" I finally asked. "I've never seen Lestrade like that."

Gregson sighed. "Lestrade doesn't react well to child killers." He said wearily. "Not at the best of times. He takes that sort of thing personally."

"That's only half of an answer, Gregson." I pointed out. "It explains some of what happened, but not all. There's more to it than that."

Gregson ducked his head in concession to the observation. "It's the twenty-second." He said finally. "I should have realized how he would take it. I didn't think."

"About what?" I asked, worried. "Gregson-"

"Was it the first or the second?" Holmes asked, startling me.

He had startled Gregson too. "The second." He said a second later. Apparently he knew what Holmes was asking about. "Allie." Gregson turned back to me. "She was Lestrade's fourth born." He explained, and a weight settled on my stomach. "She died on the twenty-third of this month."

Gregson's wife was forcing a cup of tea on the other Inspector when we arrived. She greeted her husband with a look that was accusing, but not entirely lacking in understanding.

"How is she?" Mrs. Gregson asked. Her husband shook his head.

"I told her you would stay with her for a while." He said. His wife smiled sadly.

"Of course." She said. "I'll go now. Walk me out?" She asked sweetly, and Gregson nodded.

Lestrade either didn't notice or didn't care that Holmes and I were still there. He sat staring into his cup as if it were something to be studied rather than drank.

I wasn't sure what to do, or say. Lestrade was a private man, even with those he was close to. I wasn't sure that anything I might say would be welcome.

Holmes looked up as Gregson returned. "There is a woman involved." He announced. All attention was on him. "She wears a very distinctive perfume. There are only three places in London that sell it. I believe I can identify her before the day is out."

Lestrade nodded, once again safely withdrawn into the role of Inspector. "Do that, Mr. Holmes, but come to us before you go after her." He said. "I'm guessing you want to go looking for her yourself?"

Holmes nodded, surprised and a little pleased, I think, by Lestrade's acceptance of his preference for doing that sort of work alone, though I doubt if he would have admitted as much even to himself.

Gregson shot Lestrade a meaningful look. "I have work to do." He said. Lestrade nodded and rose to his feet.

"We won't keep you, then." He said briskly, and Gregson escorted us out of his home. The Inspector left, headed, I believed, towards Scotland Yard, and Holmes excused himself and went his own way, leaving Lestrade and myself standing in front of Gregson's home.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade started walking. I followed.

I didn't ask where we were going, and he didn't say. I don't think he even really knew where he was going. He didn't speak, and gave no indication that he knew I was there, or even cared.

For a while we just walked.

"Allie was the second one we lost." Lestrade said quietly. I almost didn't hear him. "She was born about a year after Amy, looked just like her mother. She wasn't strong. We did what we could, but…" He trailed off, and we again we walked in silence.

It was several minutes before he looked back up from the ground. He managed a weak smile. "I don't think I slept more than two hours out of the day those three months." He swallowed. "I was there, when she-when we lost her. Lizzie knew, and sent a message to the Yard. I left Gregson standing there with Mr. Holmes without so much as an explanation and went home. I wasn't about to make my wife suffer through that alone. Not again."

Lestrade was quiet again. I didn't say a word. I wasn't supposed to say anything.

Presently the man stopped walking and turned to face me. "I've never told anyone that before." He said uncertainly. "Lizzie won't talk about the ones we've lost. I don't think she can."

We were walking again. I still said nothing.

I knew what it was like, to lose a child, to lose a loved one. He knew that. He didn't need or want insufficient condolences or words that failed to actually console or comfort. That wasn't why he was telling me this.

"Inspector!" Our conversation was interrupted; Lestrade's head jerked around, looking for the origin of the cry. A Constable was running at us full speed.

"What?" Lestrade demanded, even as he moved towards the man. It was Adams, who didn't stop but merely turned and started back in the direction from whence he had come.

"Smith has gone barking mad, Lestrade!" The Constable declared. I realized as we ran that we weren't far from Scotland Yard. "They had to pull him off the Superintendent, and they can't get him calmed down. Gregson and Jones managed to get him off the man and Jones cuffed him, but he was still cursing and spitting and swears he's going to kill Crane!"

"He's figured it out." Lestrade cursed. "Gregson sent you?"

"Yes, sir."

We reached the Yard, and Lestrade pulled up short. "Go home, Adams. That's an order."

Adams frowned. "Sir?" He asked, confused.

Lestrade cursed again. "I don't have time to explain right now, Adams, and I can't afford to be worrying about both of you. Go home."

Adams managed a nod. "Yes, sir." He said quietly.

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. "Good man." He said. Then he darted inside. "We may need you, Doctor." He called over his shoulder. I glanced at the subdued Constable one last time before following Lestrade inside.

"Where is he?" Lestrade barked at the first Constable he saw, which happened to be an alarmed Evans. The Constable apparently knew exactly who Lestrade was asking about because he pointed, and Lestrade took off.

We rounded the corner and I stopped short at the scene that met my eyes, though Lestrade simply kept moving as before us Constable Smith, his arms suddenly free, decked Jones, ducked past Gregson, and threw himself at the man who did not seem to have the sense to get out of the room.

Lestrade slammed into Smith, knocking him away from his intended target, and punched the Constable in the chest. Smith merely shrugged the blow off and turned to face the Inspector.

"Get out of my way." Smith snarled.

"You know I can't do that." Lestrade retorted. "Now settle down."

"I can't do that." Smith replied, echoing the Inspector. "I've got nothing against you Lestrade. Just step out of the way."

The two men stood tense for a second longer. "Don't do this, Matthias." Lestrade implored, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Smith threw another punch, which Lestrade blocked as he stepped in closer to the Constable. He used his foot to sweep Smith's leg out from under him, and darted forward as the man fell to pin him to the ground.

Smith twisted, and Lestrade bit back a shout as the other man grabbed his arm and jerked it painfully behind him. Lestrade paled but still managed to hook his left foot around the Constable's ankle.

He jerked backwards and Smith went down again, and this time Lestrade went with him. The Inspector rolled off the downed man and came back up. Smith scrambled to his hands and knees to find the barrel of a gun pointed in his face.

Lestrade held the gun carefully in his left hand, but his aim was steady. "Your father would not have wanted you to throw away your career or your life away over a personal gruge. Especially not for _him_." He glared at the younger man. "Now you have a choice to make. You can take a nice, calming walk down to my office and wait for me there, or I can pull this trigger. What's it going to be?"

Smith swallowed. Carefully he took a few steps back, unwilling to gamble that the Inspector was bluffing. Then he turned his back on Lestrade and started walking towards the man's office.

The Superintendent started forward. "Now just a-" He broke off as he realized the gun was no longer leveled on Smith. Crane froze. Those few others present waited.

"He's overworked." Lestrade said unconvincingly. "The stress has gotten to him. It won't happen again." He looked back to see that Smith was gone before pocketing his revolver.

"You're right it won't." Crane snapped. "He's out of here."

Lestrade shook his head. "He's confused, Crane. You don't need to worry about him. I'll take care of it. Just let it go."

Crane was not appeased. If anything, he grew even angrier. "_You_ are not in charge here, Inspector." He snarled. "I am. And I will not be ordered about by someone who got where he is today by getting ninety percent of the people he worked with fired through slander, lies, and manipulation."

Lestrade stiffened. Dark eyes glittering, he took a step closer to the man. "You and I both know better than that, Superintendent." He said, his easy tone at odds with his rigid, barely controlled movements. "Just like we know why you've been trying to get rid of me. Well, Crane, I'm going to help you out with that one." He smiled at the man. Then he hit him.

Blood sprayed as the Superintendent clutched at his nose. Lestrade stepped back. "I'll be in my office when he decides whether to fire me, charge me for assault, or both." He told Jones, who was scowling at him.

Lestrade looked at me. "You might want to give him a hand there." He suggested.

I moved forward to deal with the man's bloody nose as Inspector Lestrade turned and walked down the hall.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: Okay, even though I know you guys are all probably thinking "On with the story!" let me just take a minute here and thank everyone for reviewing. I love reviews; they keep me encouraged and therefore writing. I also like replying to them to let you guys know that I do appreciate them. However, I am now in the second half of the college semester and life is getting busy, crazy, and/or hectic, so in an effort to still post regularly, I have been steadily decreasing the amount of reviews I actually reply to, but I figured that if it kept me posting you guys would forgive me, so keep reading, and please keep reviewing and thanks to everyone who has reviewed and I'm not ignoring them. I read them all and take great pleasure in doing so, so again, thanks.

Also, I'm glad Lestrade decking Crane went over so well. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, by the time I reached that point in the story _I_ wanted to punch him.

Okay, _now, "_On with the story!"

* * *

"You broke his nose." I said as we entered Lestrade's office. He had hit the Superintendent left handed and had still managed to break the man's nose. I doubted very much it had been an accident, either.

"You're fired." Gregson informed him cheerfully. "But I did convince him to leave Smith alone. As long as he doesn't try anything stupid like that again, he should be fine."

Smith did not look entirely grateful from his seat in front of Lestrade's desk. Nor did Lestrade look immensely surprised from his.

"I had already left. You found papers with Crane's name on them in my desk." Lestrade said to Gregson.

The other Inspector nodded. "I didn't read them, I just saw Crane's name circled and thought it best to give them to him." He sighed. "I'll get him, Giles."

"Just be careful." Lestrade said wearily, running a hand through his hair. "The man is dangerous."

"I know." The two men stood and looked at each other for a moment longer before Gregson turned to glare at Smith, who slouched even further down in his seat. "You knock some sense into him?" He asked Lestrade, scowling.

"What's done is done, Gregson." Lestrade retorted, rising from his chair. "It won't happen again."

"Are you going to talk to Adams?" Gregson wanted to know.

"It won't happen again." Lestrade repeated flatly. He crossed the room and stepped past Gregson and myself and out into the hall.

I said goodbye to Gregson and Smith and followed Lestrade. He did not speak to me until we were well outside the Yard. "Smith just figured out that Crane was the reason his father died." Lestrade said bluntly. "Apparently they didn't do a good enough job of covering that disaster up."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Crane knew some of the men involved in the-ahem-business we were going to raid. He tipped them off; they were waiting for us. We lost Smith and Johnson, and Adams, in a sense, and others were injured before we managed to get out of there." Lestrade shook his head. "We could never prove it was him, just like we could never prove our suspicion that he was actually involved in the business itself."

"We?" I asked.

"Gregson and I." Lestrade said simply. Then he waited.

"You're still trying to prove it." I realized.

"Gregson is." Lestrade corrected. "I was trying to keep from getting fired. I haven't been much help. But Crane doesn't remember Gregson; he was just another newcomer in a sea of newcomers, so Crane doesn't suspect him."

"But he remembers you, and disliked you even then, so you make the perfect scapegoat." I realized. Lestrade nodded.

"Crane was starting to get suspicious. If Gregson 'finds' papers in my office, Crane will think I was the one spying on him."

"And Gregson will be free to get what he needs. You've been setting this up all along, haven't you? Gregson's been trying to get on Crane's good side by apparently picking on you, and all the while he's been digging for information on the man." Lestrade nodded. "But what do you hope to accomplish by this?" I asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "Either he resigns, or we take it to his superiors." He said. "We want him out of there. He's corrupt, Doctor. He's corrupt, and a disgrace, and he cost several good men their lives in that raid."

I considered that for a minute or two, as I also tried to figure out where we were going. "Why did he say you had gotten your position as Inspector by 'getting ninety percent of the people you worked with fired through slander, lies, and manipulation'?" I asked as I realized Lestrade was _not _headed home.

"Because I _did_ get ninety percent of the people I worked with fired." He replied. "Though it was actually because I was either too stubborn or too stupid to ignore how much corruption there was in Scotland Yard at the time." He shrugged. "Crane was the one that got away."

"What are you going to do now?" I asked as Lestrade fell silent. I wasn't sure what he would do now that he was no longer with the Yard. There was a reason the other Inspectors joked about him being _the_ Yarder.

"Take a nap." Lestrade answered, sounding unconcerned. "Mr. Holmes said he'd have found this woman by this evening. That should give me a few hours of sleep, which is more than I've had in a while. If we can apprehend her, we can turn her over to whoever's been put in charge of the case in my place, and hopefully they'll be able to get some information out of her."

"That's not what I meant." I told him carefully. He turned and looked me dead in the eye.

"I know." He said, but did not offer any other answer.

I followed him into the bar, reluctant to leave him on his own after all that had happened today. He found a seat at the bar and ordered something stronger than his usual drink and turned to look at me as if to ask what I wanted.

I hesitated. I was almost certain I did not like where this was headed.

"Just one." Lestrade suggested. I conceded, and gave my order. "Thank you." He said as we got our drinks. I looked at him, admittedly a bit confused by his reaction.

"For what?" I asked.

Lestrade regarded me solemnly. "Some people shouldn't drink alone." He said.

It was not the first time I had heard him say something to that effect, but it _was_ the first time I stopped to consider why he might say something like that, and the first time that it occurred to me that perhaps he spoke from personal experience. I tried to recall if I had ever seen the man drink alone.

I did not think I had.

We finished our drinks, and Lestrade insisted on paying. I walked the man home, still reluctant to leave him by himself in his current mood.

His wife met us at the door. Elisabeth knew. She could tell just by looking at her husband. She looked at me.

"Thank you." She said earnestly as she stepped forward to pull her husband into her embrace. He did not bother resisting.

I nodded in reply and offered her a tight smile before leaving to let Elisabeth speak with her husband privately.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	16. Chapter 16

I returned to Baker Street, my mind and heart heavy with the day's events. Part of me still could not believe that Lestrade had actually been fired, and a part of me wondered what else the man would be put through today.

I wondered who would be put in charge of Lestrade's cases now, especially this latest one. I also wondered if whoever was put in charge would actually risk working with Holmes, in spite of the fact that he could certainly help.

My thoughts were on Gregson as well. He had been apparently riding Lestrade hard for weeks now, and had been doing a good job at it too. He was currently somewhat at odds with at least half of the Yard as a result, and today's events would not have done him any good in that area.

But like Lestrade, the man was apparently more interested in doing what he felt he needed to do for the good of the Yard than worrying about his own problems. If Bradstreet was giving him evil looks whenever they passed each other in the hall, it seemed to have little effect on the fair haired Inspector.

Part of me wondered, however, how much of that lack of concern was just an act. I had seen a kinder, more compassionate side of the man today, and it had made me think.

Perhaps Gregson was not as callous as he liked to appear.

It was close to two o'clock when one of the Irregulars brought me a summons from Holmes asking me to meet him at Scotland Yard.

I sighed as I set off. Holmes was likely not yet aware of the day's events at the Yard, and I doubted he would be pleased when he learned.

I found Holmes and Hopkins in the Inspector's office. Hopkins seemed to be trying to argue with two people at once as I entered the room and a cowed Constable Evans shifted to get out of my way.

"Lestrade is gone, Holmes!" Hopkins finally turned on my friend. "He's gone, and so is the case! There is no case! There are no bloody notes! We've got Constables that are afraid to so much as breathe without permission and Inspectors at each other's throats and I don't have time to stand here and listen to your insults." He glared at the man for perhaps four seconds before turning on Evans.

"Tell Bradstreet I wouldn't care if Gregson were sleeping with Lestrade's wife, the man's still an Inspector, and one of the best. We need him." He growled as Evans turned a deep shade of red and gestured helplessly with his hands. "Tell him that, and exactly that, Evans. Now."

Evans nodded dejectedly and scampered out of the room and down the hall. Hopkins turned back to Holmes.

"Go find Lestrade, then. He'll still go with you, if you ask him." He grumbled. "And tell him I want his bloody notes on the bloody child-killing case. Whatever notes he left here have vanished." Hopkins departed his office abruptly, leaving us standing there alone.

Holmes looked at me. "Lestrade stopped Constable Smith from killing the Superintendent and then broke Crane's nose himself." I explained. "He's been fired."

"Fired?" Holmes looked as if the world had suddenly gone mad. A part of me wondered if it hadn't. I nodded, and continued to explain as we traveled through the halls of a building that suddenly seemed to me angry and hostile.

Lestrade was not at his home when we got there. His wife greeted us with a tight, worried smile, and told us that her husband had gone to pay a visit to Adams. She was kind enough to give us the address, but caught my arm as we would have left.

"Watch out for him, John." She implored. Worry showed in her eyes. "He's a little lost right now, even if he won't admit it."

"I will, Elisabeth." I assured her, hoping I sounded more certain, or at least less worried, than I felt.

She nodded uncertainly. "I just-" She hesitated, but plowed on. "He's having a hard time, John. Much harder than he lets on. And you're his friend. He trusts you. He can talk to you." The woman looked for a moment as if she might say more, but shook her head.

"Go on, then." She told us, summoning up false cheer from somewhere. "And try not to make Giles _too_ late for dinner."

"We'll do our best." I promised, a lightness in my voice that I did not feel.

We found the home of Constable Adams with little difficulty. Holmes stepped forward and knocked on the door. It was a minute or two before it opened.

"I thought I recognized the demanding tone of that knock." The Constable murmured as he let us in. "I suppose your looking for the Inspe-that is, Lestrade." He shook his head. "What a day." He commented, sighing a bit.

Holmes sighed impatiently while I agreed with the Constable. Adams chuckled, not in the least put out by Holmes' reaction. "He's out back, talking to Dad. Come on."

"They ran me off, told me to go inside." He said with a grin that was half amused, half worried as he led us through the house and towards the back door. "I felt like a boy again, back when they'd be discussing some case or other not meant for little ears."

I returned the smile, though I was certainly not used to the man being so talkative. I said as much, and he shrugged.

"I'm not on duty, now am I?" He pointed out.

"I suppose not." I conceded. "So Lestrade used to come out here and discuss cases with your father?" I asked, curious.

Adams nodded. "Years ago. Dad was still on the force then. But it wasn't always safe to talk down at the Yard. They used to spend a lot of time on each other's back porches, that lot did." Seeing that I did not understand, he explained. "My Dad, Smith's father, Lestrade and a few others ran in a pretty tight group back then. They spent a lot of time fighting the corruption that was pretty widespread in the Yard at the time, so they needed somewhere else to discuss that sort of thing."

He cracked the back door and poked his head out. "Mr. Holmes for you, Lestrade." He ventured.

"We're talking, boy." An older voice rebuked Adams.

Adams nodded. "I know, Dad. But-"

"But you don't keep Mr. Holmes waiting." Came the wry reply. "Bring him out, then."

Adams led us out into the back, where two meant sat lazily in a couple of lawn chairs. Lestrade was one of the men, and it was odd to see him leaning back carelessly, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, staring blankly up towards the sky.

The other was an older, greyer version of Constable Adams. The boy appeared to be his father's son in every way. A cane rested against the man's chair, and he too leaned back in his seat, his legs set out carelessly in front of him.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" Adams greeted us. "And this must be Doctor Watson."

"Inspector Adams." Holmes returned the greeting.

"I haven't been an Inspector for years." The man waved the title off. "There's a bench, have a seat. You too, son."

I sat down between Holmes and the Constable. I was surprised that Holmes had chosen to sit down, as anxious as he was to apprehend this woman. But it seemed news of the day's events and Lestrade's uncharacteristic behavior had left him a bit unsettled as well, for he sat, and then did not seem to know what to do next.

The senior Adams fixed his son with a look that made me wonder if this was where Lestrade had learned how to glare at people. I felt a wave of pity rise up in me for the man who had to deal with both Adams senior and Lestrade on a regular basis.

"I'm warning you now, Terrance," the younger Adams somehow managed not to fidget. "Crane is not a man to cross. You watch yourself around him, and behave yourself around him. Keep your nose clean, do what the man says, and avoid him as much as possible." He paused for a moment. "And tell young Matthias the same thing. The boy was lucky today. He also cost the Yard a good man."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It wasn't entirely his fault, Inspector." He defended the other Constable. The Senior Adams did not bother commenting on Lestrade's use of his title, though he did roll his eyes.

"Bull." He informed Lestrade. "Don't treat me like one of your boys, Lestrade. I knew you when your position at the Yard was considered a joke and you were daft enough to argue with Constables, Inspectors, and the Superintendent alike. I may be old, and I may be retired, but that doesn't mean I don't know how things work anymore."

Lestrade didn't look surprised, but he did sit up defensively. "I act the same way now as I did then." He declared irritably. "And good men have tried to kill each other for less."

"You wouldn't try to kill someone who had gotten your father killed." The older Adams challenged. Lestrade laughed.

There was no mirth in the sound.

"I would not." He confirmed. "But not for the reason you're suggesting." He received a dark look in reply. "But Smith is another thing. Liza died when the boy was just little, and each was all the other had. _You_ understand that." He added.

The older Adams sighed wearily. "I do." He agreed. "But you have changed." He added, almost absently. "You distance yourself from people. There's a wall there, Lestrade, that you won't let anyone through."

Instead of being embarrassed, Lestrade simply snorted. "I've always been that way, Inspector." He replied. "You were just the exception." Then he turned to Holmes, apparently finished with the strange discussion. "Was there something you needed?" He asked.

The senior Adams shook his head, but let the matter go. Holmes was suddenly in charge of the situation once more.

"I have found the woman we are seeking." He announced.

"You should have gone to the Yard." Lestrade said shortly, his expression carefully neutral.

"Hopkins sent us to you." Holmes retorted. "He also wants your notes on the case."

Lestrade looked puzzled for all of two seconds. Then he just looked tired. "Let's go, then." He said, getting to his feet. "Inspector. Adams." He nodded to both men.

"Come again, Lestrade." The older Adams called as we departed. "I always enjoy our visits."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	17. Chapter 17

The ride across London to confront Miss Lillian Grey, the woman Holmes named as the writer of the letter and accomplice to a murderer, was a distinctly uncomfortable trip. Lestrade and Holmes were quiet, which in and of itself was nothing immensely unusual, but the air in the cab was heavy and charged with uncertainty and tension.

Lestrade stared out the window, watching the streets and buildings pass by, and Holmes leaned back in his seat with a false nonchalance, looking every minute or so as if he might open his mouth and ask Lestrade _something_, but always changing his mind at the last second. It was an odd thing to witness in my friend, and something I was at a bit of a loss to understand.

After what seemed an eternity we reached our destination. We climbed out in silence, and I quickly moved to pay the cabbie, knowing that Holmes would not remember to and that Lestrade would do so himself if I did not beat him to it. I was surprised, all the same, when Lestrade did not at least raise an eyebrow in response to my paying.

Holmes led us to one of the apartments, but made no move to knock on the door. "She is currently out." He offered in explanation. "She should, however, be returning shortly."

The ten minute wait was as awkward as the ride over had been, and seemed to drag on far longer than it actually did. I tried once or twice to ease the tension in the air, but neither of my companions was overly responsive to my attempts at conversation, so I gave up.

Our quarry slowed as she caught sight of us, but approached us anyway. "May I help you?" She asked, a trifle nervously.

"Yes." Holmes replied, looking her over critically. "Are you Lillian Grey?"

The woman nodded uncertainly. "And you, gentlemen?" She asked. "Who are you?" She was a small thing, dressed simply but neatly. Her raven hair was pulled up and back into a tight bun, and her eyes were sharp and intelligent, at odds with her soft voice and the helplessness she tried to project.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." Holmes introduced himself. "With me are Dr. John Watson and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." Out of the corner of my eye Lestrade barely managed not to flinch. "We would like to ask you a few questions." Holmes went on.

Miss Grey forced a smile. "Of course, Mr. Holmes." She said. "I don't know what this is all about, but if I can be of help, I will do so gladly."

A warning went off in my mind a second too late. Miss Grey was quick; she bolted.

Lestrade was faster. He darted forward and caught her, though it was with his still healing right arm. I saw him wince as she pulled away from him.

He shifted to catch her with his left, but she too had noticed his reaction. She jerked even harder, and Lestrade paled and let go.

Holmes let loose an oath as she was again running. He threw an insult back at Lestrade as he took off after her. I looked toward Lestrade, worried, but he had recovered and taken off after Holmes. There was nothing else for me to do but follow.

She turned a corner, but when we had rounded it after her there was no sight of the woman. She was gone, lost in the crowd that was milling about in the sunny afternoon.

Holmes looked around one last time before turning on Lestrade. "A woman?" He demanded. "You let a _woman_ escape you, Lestrade? Don't tell me that in my absence women have suddenly become more than a match for the men of Scotland Yard!"

I opened my mouth to defend the man, but Lestrade silenced me with a look and an abrupt shake of his head. My jaw snapped shut reluctantly.

"Hopkins will want to know of this as soon as possible." Lestrade continued, speaking to me rather than to Holmes, who looked even angrier as he realized he was being ignored. "He also won't be happy if I don't have some notes for you to give him." He added. "My notebook is at home."

"Then we should stop there on our way back to the Yard." I suggested uncertainly. Lestrade nodded, and we set off.

Holmes fell silent as we made our way back to Lestrade's home. He was still all but fuming, and kept his hands shoved in his pockets and glared straight ahead until we reached Lestrade's home.

Hopkins was waiting for us. We found him sitting in Lestrade's sitting rooming with a cup of tea in hand, chatting amiably with Elisabeth. Both seemed completely at ease sitting there together, and I wondered if that were not more Elisabeth's doing than Hopkins actually being accustomed to the thought of visiting Lestrade's home.

They looked up as we entered the room, and both were on their feet in an instant, Elisabeth offering to get us all tea while Hopkins looked nervous for a few seconds before his expression cleared.

"That won't be necessary, dear." Lestrade said to his wife, referring to the tea. "But if you'd give us a minute, I'd be grateful."

Elisabeth nodded and retreated from the room. Lestrade went over to his desk, presumably to look for whatever notes Hopkins required.

Hopkins regarded Holmes and myself curiously. "I thought you were going after someone?" He said uncertainly, and Holmes growled.

"She has managed to elude us for the time being." I offered before Holmes could throw another insult in Lestrade's direction. Hopkins frowned.

"We need her." He said. "If she'll talk-"

"She bolted." Lestrade snapped, turning and brandishing a notebook at the younger man. "Here. I didn't get a good grip on her, and she broke free, turned the corner and vanished."

Hopkins accepted the notebook, looking Lestrade over from head to foot as he did so. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably under the younger Inspector's gaze.

"Get some rest, Lestrade." Hopkins finally said. I was not expecting the authority in his voice as he said it. It reminded me of the days after the attack on the previous Superintendent, and how Hopkins had seemed to take control of the situation then as well.

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but Hopkins cut him off. "We'll find her, Lestrade." He assured the other man. "You need a break. You're worn out, and you still aren't completely recovered, no matter how much you like to pretend otherwise. Stay home, get some rest, and trust me when I say that the case is in good hands."

Holmes and I watched, fascinated, as some unspoken battle seemed to take place, and Hopkins seemed to be winning. Lestrade finally sighed, and Hopkins tried to smile reassuringly.

"We'll see ourselves out." Hopkins said gently. "Thank your wife for the tea for me, please."

Lestrade nodded mutely.

"Come on." Hopkins said to Holmes and myself, in a tone that discouraged any argument, and headed for the door. Holmes followed him out, but I turned one last time to look at the man we were leaving behind.

He managed a small smile. "Go on, Doctor." He said. "Best not to keep those two waiting."

I turned to leave, but Lestrade called me back. "Doctor?"

I waited, but Lestrade seemed to have trouble forcing himself to speak. "Miss Grey." He said, his voice low. "Something about her-something about her bothers me." He shook his head and mumbled something about Hopkins being right. "Sorry. You should go."

I nodded slowly, uncertain as to why I felt so reluctant to leave. "I'll send word, should there be any news." I promised.

Lestrade nodded once more. "Thank you." He said.

I left him standing alone in the sitting room.

Hopkins joined Holmes and me and together the three of us spend the rest of the afternoon searching for Miss Lillian Grey, albeit without success. Hopkins finally promised he would put out a description of the woman and that the Constables at the Yard would keep an eye out for her and bring her in for questioning if they found her.

He left us at Baker Street, apologizing that he had taken on more than just the one case of Lestrade's and was consequently rather busy and needed to get back to the Yard. I nodded as Holmes went on inside and wished the Inspector luck. I also offered him a more complete description of our encounter with Miss Grey, at which he let out a low whistle and shook his head.

"And here everyone thought things would get better with Mr. Holmes' return." He murmured, then looked embarrassed. "Not that any of it's his fault or his doing," he added quickly. "It just seems that things have gotten a bit rough lately." He stood there uncomfortably for perhaps a minute longer.

"I _am_ glad he's back." He said.

I had to chuckle. "I know." I assured him. "I am too."

That seemed to reassure Hopkins, for he straightened and said goodbye before turning and starting off down the street.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	18. Chapter 18

I turned in my bed, roused only partially from my sleep by some sound I was not quite awake enough to identify. Holmes had predictably spent the evening brooding, and I had retired early and dropped off almost instantly, a testament to the wearing trials of the day.

I had just begun to drift back off to sleep when I heard a knock at my door, followed by the voice of my friend and flat-mate calling for me.

I rolled reluctantly from my bed and staggered blearily across the room and to the door. "What is it, Holmes?" I demanded as I opened my bedroom door. I blinked as I realized that not only was the man still fully dressed, but he also had his coat and hat.

"That was Inspector Hopkins at the door." He informed me without so much as an apology for disturbing my sleep. A second later I found out why. "He says there's been another body found. He would like for us to take a look at it."

"I'll be ready in a few minutes." I promised, now wide awake. Holmes nodded and I closed the door on him.

Old habits died hard, and the years that Holmes had been absent would not have been enough to affect the speed with which I dressed even without the occasional midnight calls from my practice and the even fewer calls from Scotland Yard itself. It was not long before I was ready and making my way down the stairs.

"I want Lestrade there." Hopkins was saying to Holmes as I reached the hall. There again was that strange authority in his voice. "The delay will not be overly long if we stop for him on the way."

"Will he be welcome?" I asked as I joined them. "I assume the body has already been moved." Hopkins nodded, which caused Holmes to scowl.

Hopkins noticed and let loose an exasperated sigh. "We can't leave dead, mutilated children lying around the streets of London, Mr. Holmes!" He declared, gesturing with his hands in his frustration. "We're catching enough flack over this affair as it is." He calmed himself. "I'm sorry. I know how you hate to have a crime scene disturbed."

"Will _we_ be welcome there?" I asked as we ventured out into the night, reminding Hopkins of my previous question.

"Crane will have gone home for the night by now." Hopkins replied. "Evans is guarding the body, and _he's_ not about to complain about any of you being there, especially not if he knows what's good for him."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, worried. Hopkins laughed.

"You don't have to worry about him." He assured me. I was not entirely convinced.

Hopkins didn't seem the least bit reluctant to wake Lestrade, in spite of his earlier orders for the man to get some rest. He knocked on the door and waited.

Several minutes later the door opened. Elisabeth looked from one of us to the other expectantly.

"Is your husband available?" Hopkins asked, and Elisabeth's lips pressed together to form a line.

"No." She said quietly. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to come back tomorrow."

Hopkins looked more surprised by the announcement than I did. "I hate to bother him, Mrs. Lestrade, but it's important. There's been another-"

"I don't care what happened." Elisabeth cut him off, steel in her voice for all that she had not raised it in the least. "My husband is sleeping, and I will not wake him up. Not this time." She glared at Hopkins. "He runs himself ragged for you people down at the Yard, and I've stood by and let him do it again and again and again, but I won't this time. Not tonight. He's exhausted, and whatever he's been into today he couldn't hold a cup of tea the way his arm's hurting him, and I'll not stand by and let you drag him out when he's got no business being up and have him running around doing your job. And anyway he's having enough trouble dealing with being fired without you people coming around and constantly reminding him of it. Now get off my front step and let us have just a little bit of peace for once."

Hopkins stared at the closed door. His mouth opened, but no sound came out and he shut it again without actually saying anything. He looked for a moment as if he might knock again and demand to speak with Lestrade anyway, but he recovered himself, swallowed, and said, "Right, well, we'll just have to make do without him." Hopkins turned on his heel and started in the direction of the Yard.

Holmes frowned. "You mean you're actually going to take that for an answer and go?" He wanted to know, and Hopkins stopped and turned back around to face us.

"Yes," he said bluntly, "and I'll tell you why. Mrs. Lestrade has had her husband come home battered, bruised, injured, exhausted, and ill and never once said a word of complaint about it. She has tolerated him being out for as long as a week and him coming home only to be called back out later in the night. She has _never_ acted like this before, and never felt the need to speak out on her husband's behalf, and if she's doing it now she's likely got a good reason for it, so we are going to leave Lestrade alone and do the best we can without him."

Hopkins started walking toward the Yard again, and this time Holmes and I followed him.

Bradstreet was with the body. The Inspector looked tired and stressed, at least for him. He also looked a bit unwell, but the body he was keeping company would probably have caused such a reaction in anyone. Hopkins was starting to look a bit upset himself.

"Any idea who he was?" Hopkins asked, his voice low. Bradstreet shook his head.

"Not yet." Bradstreet admitted heavily. "Lestrade won't be joining you?" Hopkins shook his head, but said nothing else on the matter. Bradstreet excused himself and left us to examine the body for what little information we might gather from it.

"What's this?" It was Holmes who found it; he pounced upon the clenched hand and began working at it. A moment later he held aloft a bloodied handkerchief. In one corner, embroidered in the same white that the handkerchief had been made of, was an elegant 'C.'

We stared at the handkerchief in silence. Was it a clue to the identity of the murdered child? Could it have belonged to the killer? Hopkins hissed and turned his attention back to the mutilated body on the table.

He studied the face intently, took a long look at the still clenched hand, and stooped to look behind the left ear of the corpse. He swore as he straightened up.

"The boy was a pick pocket." He grumbled. "Snitched that off his killer in hopes we'd be able to use it."

I wasn't sure I understood the Inspector properly. "You mean he knew what was going to happen to him?" I asked.

Hopkins nodded, looking even more ill than he had before. "You knew the boy." Holmes commented, and Hopkins sighed.

"Not well." He clarified. "I spoke with his father earlier today."

"About the case?" Holmes wanted to know.

"I asked a few people to keep an eye out for your Miss Grey." He explained uncomfortably.

"He didn't mention his son was missing?" I asked. Hopkins shrugged.

"He wouldn't have." He said flatly. "He doesn't trust the police."

"And yet you asked him to help the Yard." Holmes was skeptical. Hopkins reddened slightly, though more with anger than embarrassment.

"I asked him to help _me_. I asked him to keep an eye out for a _child_ _killer_." He recovered himself, and continued more calmly. "His kind doesn't like child killers any more than we do. If he sees her, we'll hear about it." The Inspector sighed. "And that's the most we can do at this point, keep looking for her."

"At least we have something new to work with." Holmes brandished the bloody handkerchief. "You are certain it belonged to the murderer?"

Hopkins nodded. "The boy wouldn't have had any sort of handkerchief, let alone one that was embroidered. Besides, his name was Samuel Barton."

"No 'C,' then." I mused.

"None at all." Hopkins agreed absently. He was staring at the corpse.

Holmes and I excused ourselves. Once outside, Holmes suggested that I go on home without him, he was going to do some hunting for Miss Grey of his own. I wished him luck and headed back toward home.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	19. Chapter 19

The following day was rather uneventful. Holmes was still out, and I heard nothing from Scotland Yard either.

It made for a rather trying day, as I had a difficult time thinking of much else than the four murdered children. I tried to distract myself; I could not focus on the novel I was currently in the middle of, and my mind was too occupied with the current case to even consider writing up any others. Even a walk failed to offer sufficient distraction from wondering who would do such a thing, and why.

As the evening neared, however, I found myself concerned with another predicament. It had become a habit, of sorts, since the death of my wife, for me to visit the Lestrades on Thursdays, where I would usually be invited, if not ordered, to stay for dinner. It was something I looked forward to every week, as did the man's family, and I had, shortly after Holmes' return, come to understand that Lestrade himself did as well.

I wondered, however, if I would be entirely welcome, given recent events and yesterday's lecture delivered by Elisabeth. At the very least I would likely be a reminder of the week's troubles, and I was not sure Lestrade would even want company.

I eventually decided to go; I was worried about the man anyway. He had not seemed himself when I had last left him, and I also wanted to check on his arm after the altercations he had been in with first Constable Smith and then Miss Grey. If Elisabeth decided to turn me away then so be it, but I would at least stop by and try to check in on the man.

Olivia opened the door, and it seemed to me that her eyes lit up as she welcomed me. "I wasn't sure you were going to come." She admitted, stepping aside to let me in. "Amy is having dinner with Mr. Addison and his family, so she won't be here tonight." She chattered, taking my coat and hat and hanging them up.

"She and Mr. Addison are getting along rather well, then?" I asked, and Olivia giggled.

"He's all she talks about anymore." She confided, more amused than annoyed by the fact. "Thomas _this_, Thomas _that_." She led me into the sitting room. "Da, Dr. Watson's here." She informed her father, who was sitting on the couch, staring absently into nothingness. It was a rather disturbing sight.

Dark eyes focused instantly on the girl, and then on me. Lestrade managed a smile, though it was still slightly distracted. "Doctor." He greeted me with a nod, and I took a seat beside him.

"How are you?" I asked, and the smile threatened to fade.

"Well enough." He said, and his daughter cleared her throat as she left, presumably to help her mother in the kitchen. Lestrade watched her go, eyebrow raised. "I seem to be trapped in a house full of mother hens." He observed, and I could not tell whether he was joking or not, nor could I tell if he were bothered by the fact.

I opted to chuckle in acknowledgment of the fact as I asked how his arm was. He rolled his eyes at the familiar inquiry.

"Well enough." He said again. It rather reminded me of back when I had first met the man and it was murder trying to get him to admit anything related to health or injury.

"Has Elisabeth threatened to tie it back up yet?" I asked, and was rewarded with a half-hearted snort.

"That'll probably be tonight." He admitted, and seemed to relax just a bit. "Do me a favor, and don't side with her."

"I make no promises." I vowed, going for solemn. Lestrade shook his head woefully.

"Why on earth don't I surround myself with people who won't just leave me alone when I tell them to?" He wondered aloud.

"I could send Smith and Adams over to visit tomorrow." I offered.

Lestrade groaned. "They wouldn't leave me alone either." He informed me confidentially. "Evans might." He added doubtfully.

I debated on whether or not to bring up the new developments regarding the case, but decided it could wait. If Lestrade was in some semblance of a good mood, and he had not been for almost a week, I did not want to ruin it with bad news.

"Amy is rather taken with Mr. Addison, I hear." I said instead. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "She is having dinner with his family tonight?"

"Yes." He agreed. "And I've already told her that if he tries anything _she'd_ better break his arm so I don't have to."

I had heard that Lestrade's daughters were capable of defending themselves; it seemed that bit of gossip was true. It did not surprise me. "Are you expecting him to try something?" I asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "He's a young man. She's a young lady. I'm the father of the young lady in question. I'm supposed to be suspicious."

"And you were a young man too, once, I suppose." I ventured to add. Lestrade raised an eyebrow in response.

"I beg your pardon?" He demanded, not entirely convincingly, and I chuckled.

"We didn't have much of a courtship, John." Elisabeth swept in and spoke as if she had been present all along. "Dinner's ready." She added, before continuing with her original thought. "He proposed the morning after we met." Lestrade sighed as I considered Elisabeth's wording.

"The morning after?" I repeated cautiously, and Elisabeth laughed.

"He spent the evening on our couch. I found him on the porch, half conscious and bleeding out of his head. He proposed the next morning, right before he left for the Yard."

I couldn't help but laugh. It sounded unbelievable, but then again, it also sounded very much like Lestrade. Lestrade considered glaring at his wife but thought better of it; instead he asked if she hadn't just said dinner was ready.

The actual meal was a bit different from what dinners usually were with the Lestrades; there was an undercurrent of tension, and everyone seemed a bit subdued. Elisabeth insisted on serving her husband, giving him a look that dared him to defy her while he pretended not to notice what she was doing. Olivia worked hard to ignore them both.

"Mr. Holmes couldn't make it?" Elisabeth asked, and I grimaced.

"To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten all about inviting him." I admitted. "But then again, I haven't seen him since yesterday evening."

"He's out on a case, then?" Elisabeth inquired politely. I nodded, and waited for Lestrade to ask _which_ case.

He did not ask, nor did he seem interested, which seemed to relieve his wife a bit, but perhaps that was merely my imagination. I, on the other hand, was somewhat worried by his lack of reaction.

The rest of the meal passed, and at its end Elisabeth threw both of us, Lestrade and myself, out of the kitchen, assuring us that she and Olivia could manage the cleaning up just fine.

We retreated to the living room and fell into silence, though it was not the usual comfortable silence that usually followed the evening meal.

It was Lestrade who finally spoke. His voice cut through the stillness. "Mr. Holmes is looking for Miss Grey?" He asked.

"He is." I confirmed, and Lestrade was quiet for another minute.

"Hopkins stopped by last night." He said softly. "Why?"

I hesitated. "There was another body found."

"Another child." It was not a question. I nodded anyway. Lestrade sighed. "Elisabeth wants me to stay out of it." He confessed wearily. He ran a hand through dark hair and sighed. "She says you lot can manage it well enough yourselves. She says I've done enough."

I didn't know what to say to that. "She's worried about you." I finally offered.

"I know," He said uncomfortably. He started to say something else, but changed his mind. "I know." He said again.

I said goodnight soon after that, and Lestrade walked me to the door as always. I left him behind and started out into the dark, making my way home.

Holmes was not back when I returned.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	20. Chapter 20

Holmes had still not returned when Inspector Bradstreet showed up at the door the following evening, insisting that I again join the Inspectors for a drink.

"Hello, Doctor." Bradstreet greeted me cheerfully. "Doing anything this evening? Good," He continued when I shook my head to indicate that no, I was not. "Everyone had such a good time last week I thought we'd have you back."

I recalled my first meeting with the Inspector before me, and for what was not the first time I was hard put to reconcile the easy going man I knew him to be with the man I had decked, tripped, and shoved to the ground when he had come up behind me and tried to put me in a stranglehold to prove a point shortly after our first official introduction.

I sometimes wondered what had caused that difference, but as ever, I made no inquiry on the matter. Instead I smiled at him a little insincerely and said that yes, I would be delighted to join them.

Jones was the only one at the table when we arrived. He raised his glass in salute as we sat down and Bradstreet chuckled. "Nice to see _someone's_ in a good mood today." He commented as he signaled for a drink.

"Burglary. Open and shut case. The butler did it. We found the stolen jewelry in the bag he had packed in preparation to flee." Jones replied conversationally.

"Where's Hopkins?" Bradstreet wanted to know.

"Working late." Jones told him. "And Gregson left the Yard mumbling something about smugglers, dust coats, and women."

I was a bit confused by that, but Bradstreet merely sighed. "I hate it when he gets incoherent." He complained.

"I've never known Gregson to be incoherent." I admitted, and Jones laughed.

"Of course you haven't!" He declared. "It doesn't happen often. Only what, three times since I've been there."

"Last time Hopkins thought he'd lost it." Bradstreet confided. "Went and warned Lestrade, who acted like it was nothing to worry over."

"Which it wasn't." Jones added, and I wondered if part of becoming an Inspector at the Yard was learning how to carry on meaningless, if sometimes entertaining, conversations about one's fellow Inspectors to pass the time. "Ah!" Jones called to Gregson as he approached. "Are you coherent again, or do we need to send for a translator?"

"Shut up, Jones." Gregson retorted unceremoniously. "Stop swearing at me under your breath." He added, addressing whoever was following him. "I need you to look at something for me and I'd prefer to have someone watching our backs."

He sat down. I blinked at the small, dark eyed man who sat down beside him, scowling all the while.

"Evening, Lestrade." Bradstreet said brightly, never as oblivious as he appeared.

Lestrade nodded in response and promptly began ignoring us in favor of trying to decipher Gregson's nearly illegible handwriting. Gregson signaled for his drink and eyed Jones.

"Easy case?" He guessed. Jones grunted his affirmation.

"What puts _you_ in a foul mood?" The man inquired.

Gregson shrugged. "I've been relegated to the couch." He grumbled.

"I told you you should have gone home last night instead of poking your nose in your superior's business." Jones had no sympathy for the man.

"And I told you not to stick your own nose in business that you've got no clue about." Gregson retorted.

Lestrade looked up crossly, his brows deeply furrowed. "Do you mind?" He demanded, and the two fell silent.

"My handwriting isn't that bad." Gregson grumbled after a minute or two.

"I don't read that fast anyway." Lestrade retorted. "You _know_ that."

"Been hit in the head too many times." Gregson suggested. Lestrade looked up long enough to shoot him a look that was pure evil.

It was then that I noticed that Bradstreet and Jones had gone quite and were trying to inconspicuously scoot their chairs away from the bickering Inspectors, and wondered, as Inspector Hopkins arrived and joined the group if I should do something.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Hopkins demanded, fixing Lestrade with a glare as he sat down.

Lestrade looked up once more. "Spending a relaxing evening with an old friend." He replied, rolling his eyes. Gregson shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Hopkins spent the afternoon tearing through old cases of yours." Jones informed Lestrade. "Did you find anything?" Jones asked the lad.

Hopkins was still glaring at Lestrade, though why, I had no idea. It didn't seem likely that Hopkins was now angry with Lestrade over his wife keeping him home Wednesday night, and nothing else came to mind that would explain why Hopkins currently looked ready to throttle the older man.

"I did." He answered Jones' question calmly enough. Then he slammed a handful of notebooks on the table with enough force to rattle the half empty mugs on it.

Lestrade was trying to read Gregson's handwriting again. "What are those?" He asked without looking at them.

"Notebooks." Hopkins snapped out the obvious answer.

Lestrade tried to look as interested as he was apparently supposed to be. "Whose?"

"Yours." Hopkins accused, his voice suddenly flat.

Lestrade sighed and set Gregson's notes aside. "What's in them?" He asked, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion.

"A case." Hopkins growled. "A case regarding a killing spree that was never solved! A case that you dropped and left unsolved!" Lestrade was still waiting, uncertainly, for a revelation of the cause of Hopkins' ire. "A case involving the brutal murders of five boys between the age of eight and thirteen! It all matches up! It's the same bloody case now as it was then, and you coulda stopped it, but instead you let a couple a warning notes run ya off, and now it's 'appening all over again!"

Lestrade had grown steadily whiter as Hopkins had spoken and now he stood, his eyes dark and glittering menacingly. "Let me tell you something, _boy_," he snarled. Beside him Gregson seemed to be bracing himself, as if preparing to get between the two men should it become necessary.

"I've handled more cases than you've had hot dinners and the day I need advice from you on something that happened thirty-five years ago will be the day I go back to hell and tell the devil he was right, so sod off and do your bloody job."

Lestrade turned and stormed off, throwing a warning over his shoulder. "Don't be caught at the Yard alone tonight." Four of us watched him leave in stunned silence. Gregson, on the other hand, was studying his fingernails, trying to ignore the entire scene.

"What was that?" Bradstreet finally asked, his voice low. He sounded almost afraid to speak any louder than he currently was.

Gregson sighed and stopped trying to feign ignorance. "Sit down, Hopkins." He said. When Hopkins looked as if he might protest, he added, "I will explain Lestrade's reaction if you will sit down and stop attracting attention."

Hopkins nodded mutely, and sat down.

"Five murders in two months." Gregson began his narrative, "Lestrade was given the case, and he threw himself into it like a madman. Never did like child killers." He mused, then shook his head. "He examined and reexamined every victim, every crime scene, kept notes on his wall vivid enough to-well, you've seen them." He said to Hopkins, nodding to the notebooks in the middle of the table.

"He must have been through every street, alley and dark corner in London looking for the man responsible. He was wearing himself out, looking for this murderer, and still had two or three other cases that were just as demanding as this one. I was helping him on one of his cases, but-it doesn't lighten the load as much as one might think." Gregson was changing something there, but although everyone at the table recognized it no one called him on it.

"The warnings he received to leave the case alone were the least of his concerns." The Inspector continued cryptically. "But he figured something out eventually, and took off out of the Yard as if something were after him." Gregson ran a hand through his hair, his eyes distant as he recalled the incident. "West went out looking for him the next morning when he didn't show up for work and found him in an alley with that thick skull of his knocked in."

"It was almost three days before he woke up, and when he did he couldn't remember much of anything except that he didn't like me. Most of his memory came back to him in the following couple of weeks, all except for those last two months. He never remembered what happened that night, and he never remembered any of the events in your notebooks there, Hopkins. He spent nearly a week giving himself headaches trying to remember until the Superintendent suggested he let it go-the killings had stopped anyway."

"It's a sore spot, then." Jones ventured as Gregson finished. The other Inspector shrugged.

"Maybe. The first thing he said when he woke up was that he knew who did it." Another shrug. "When pressed he couldn't remember who it was or what they were supposed to have done or even who he was."

"He was lucky." I noted. "Head wound like that, lying in an alley all night. It's a wonder he survived."

"And that he wasn't left brain-dead." Gregson agreed.

"Is that why you tease him about being slow?" Jones wanted to know. He did not seem particularly concerned with the implications of the man's story.

"No." Gregson replied, suddenly irritated. "It's because it takes him twenty minutes to read a police report, and then twenty more to comprehend it, and he's always been like that. Good evening, gentlemen." He said abruptly, and rose from his seat and left. We sat in silence and watched him go.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	21. Chapter 21

Holmes had returned by the time I made it back to Baker Street, but was in a less than pleasant mood. He had not been able to find this woman, this Lillian Grey. He had spent two days combing through London and had come up with nothing.

Any attempt at conversation was in vain, so I soon gave up on trying to relate the afternoon's events.

He was sitting in his armchair, still smoking his pipe when I went up to bed.

Constable Evans broke Holmes' mood the following morning with news that Miss Grey had been found and was being brought in and a request from Hopkins that Holmes and I come down to the Yard.

Hopkins was in his office, leaning back in the seat behind his desk and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Holmes. Watson. Glad you could come." He greeted us without opening his eyes.

"Miss Grey?" Holmes inquired.

"Is not here yet." Hopkins replied, stifling a yawn.

"Have you slept recently?" I asked, concerned. Hopkins did not usually yawn. The man didn't seem to need as much sleep as most people, and so it was rare to catch him actually tired, but right now he looked like he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed for a few hours.

Hopkins shrugged and opened his eyes. "I have my own cases, plus several of Lestrade's to deal with." He offered. "I want this child killer before he strikes again."

"Not that ya'd know what ta do wit' 'im once ya 'ad 'im, Stanley." A rough voice thundered. We turned; an equally rough character stood in the doorway.

Hopkins' guest was tall, big, and muscular. His clothes were worn, there was dirt on his face and hands, and an interesting odor seemed to accompany him. Hopkins looked up at the huge man and grinned.

"Good ta see ya, me old cocker." Hopkins greeted the man that was setting warning bells off in my mind. He came around his desk and approached the man, who slapped him on the shoulder with nearly enough force to knock him over.

"Still a bit scrawny there, Stanley." The giant chortled. Hopkins laughed along with him.

Both men were suddenly completely serious. "Ya found 'er?" Hopkins asked. His language was rapidly becoming as dreadful as his visitor's.

"The copper said 'e'd take 'er. It were Evans, so I reckoned it'd be all right." The huge man confirmed cheerfully.

Hopkins smiled. "Evans is a good un, in't 'e?" He replied. "I'd like ta see 'er afore ya go, Samuel." He added, and the big man shrugged.

"Suit yerself." He said.

Holmes and I followed the two men out into the hall and down to the holding cells, where Miss Lillian Grey was indeed waiting, albeit perhaps a trifle paler and more shaken than she had been on our last encounter.

"There she is, and not an 'air on 'er 'ead 'armed, Stanley." The man declared, then cleared his throat. "Times is 'ard."

"I didn't offer a reward for bringing 'er in, Sam." Hopkins replied. I considered the wisdom involved in arguing with this rather strong looking rough.

"No, but ya did offer a reward for not 'arming the wench." The other pointed out, instead of being offended. "It was mighty tempting, ya know, what with all ya said she was involved in." Hopkins shrugged, and Samuel's eyes lit up. "'Course, if'n ya wanted ta save yerself the trouble ya could just let us rough 'er up a bit."

Hopkins looked as if her were considering it. "How much is a bit?" He wanted to know. It was Sammy's turn to shrug.

Miss Grey was incredulous. "You're a policeman!" She screeched at Hopkins. He looked over at her and laughed.

"True enough," he agreed, "but I was more like Sammy here before I became a policeman. Still am, to some extent, Miss, and where I come from we don't care for child killers, especially not once it becomes personal." He nodded towards Samuel. "The last boy to die was his."

Miss Grey's eyes widened at that. They went even wider as Hopkins stepped closer to her cell, all lightness gone from his demeanor. "Now before you're charged with conspiracy to murder, is there anything you'd like to share with us?"

Lillian Grey's eyes flashed, and she straightened and tilted her head back and stared up defiantly at Hopkins. "I'm not telling you anything." She declared.

"Samuel." The big man had moved, but a warning from Hopkins stilled him. "I'll let you think it over. If you decided you don't want to go down alone just give us a shout, eh?" He smiled humorlessly and spun on his hill and left the room. Sammy grumbled and followed, leaving Holmes and myself to bring up the rear.

Hopkins _was_ paying the big man as we joined him in the hall. He was also threatening to thrash the man if he didn't take it.

Sammy flushed and accepted the money. He also slapped Hopkins on the shoulder once more before saying goodbye to the Inspector and ambling off.

"Interesting fellow." Holmes commented, when the giant had gone. "She's not going to talk." He added.

Hopkins sighed. "I know." He admitted. "I was hoping she would be somewhat less strong of mind and will. I don't suppose you noticed anything about her back there that might be useful."

"To identifying her accomplice?" Holmes shook his head. "No, nothing."

Hopkins sighed once more. "Ah, well." He squared his shoulders. "Back to work, I suppose. Sorry to have wasted your time, gentlemen."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	22. Chapter 22

Holmes and I followed Hopkins down the hall. We turned the corner that lead down the hall and to his office only to run straight into Superintendent Crane.

"Sir." Hopkins snapped to attention with the same energy that the Rookies used to have in their dealings with Lestrade.

Crane looked from the Inspector to me, and then to Holmes. "Mr. Holmes." He said, his voice low and oily.

"Superintendent." Holmes replied. Hopkins sighed as Crane looked back to him.

"So it's true." The man said. "You are working with Mr. Holmes."

"He knows almost as much as Lestrade did about the case, Superintendent." Hopkins replied bravely, with the air of one facing down death. "I was unable to find any of Lestrade's notes on the case, so I was asking for his and Dr. Watson's input on the matter."

Crane scowled at the lad. "You're off the case." He said flatly. Hopkins started.

"Sir!" He began, but decided not to argue. "Yes, sir." He hesitated. "Who's taking over it, if you don't mind me asking."

Crane sighed. "Inspector Gregson will be handling the investigation from here out."

Hopkins slumped in defeat. "Yes, sir." He said, and tried to pull himself together. "I'll show the doctor and Mr. Holmes out, sir."

"Do that." Crane said as he excused himself.

Holmes and I followed Hopkins as he wordlessly stalked towards his office. Once inside, he began rummaging through the mess that currently possessed the room and making a stack of primarily papers and notebooks on the only clear surface available: his chair.

When he had finished, he looked up at Holmes. "Will you take these to Gregson?" He asked uncertainly. "I don't want this set disappearing like the last did." He did not suggest that Gregson might appreciate a little help, but I guessed that Holmes would probably offer anyway. I hoped he did; Gregson could probably use all the help he could get. He did, after all, have other problems to deal with than this one.

Holmes nodded, and we collected the notes and papers and evidence. Then we left Hopkins in his office and headed down the hall to speak with Gregson.

Gregson did not look up from what he was doing, but waved us into an office that made Hopkins' look positively spotless by comparison. Gregson's office looked as if a whirlwind had hit.

"Hopkins' case-" Holmes began.

"Has been reassigned to me." Gregson finished, still intent on the papers he was perusing. "Are those his notes?"

"They are." Holmes confirmed.

"Put them there." Gregson gestured towards a pile of papers that reminded me of our sitting room at Baker Street when Holmes was looking for something.

Holmes did so. "If you should require any assistance-" He began. Again, Gregson interrupted.

"I shall not. Good day, Gentlemen." He said abruptly.

Holmes hesitated, but Gregson continued working as if we had already left. There was nothing to do but depart.

I was surprised to find Bradstreet waiting to walk us out. "I tried to warn Hopkins," he murmured as he fell into step with us, "but I was too late." He glared at Gregson's office door.

"Warn him?" Holmes inquired. "Of what?"

Bradstreet grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. "About Crane. Gregson told him that Hopkins was working with you two."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Gregson _told him_?" I asked. I couldn't believe it, but Bradstreet nodded. "He told Crane that Lestrade had been going to you two for help on the case and that Hopkins was doing it too."

"Why would he do that?" I demanded. It didn't make sense. Even if Gregson was still trying to make himself look good, there was no reason for this sort of thing, and an extra case would only make it harder for Gregson to accomplish _his_ goals.

Bradstreet muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and I did not ask for clarification.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	23. Chapter 23

We had barely turned the corner when the sound of a door slamming against a wall startled the three of us. Even more startling was the visage of Inspector Gregson standing in the doorway, waving a police report about madly and bellowing at the top of his lungs. "_Hopkins__! Hopkins!_"

The latter poked his head timidly out of his office. "Eh?" He managed, his eyes wide at the sight of Gregson losing his composure in the middle of Scotland Yard.

"_Where's the bloody handkerchief?" _Gregson demanded, still shouting. "_The one from your report?"_

Hopkins frowned and disappeared back into his office. A second later he reemerged, the object in question in tow. He approached Gregson nervously, and held the blood stained cloth out for his inspection.

Gregson stared at the handkerchief. His eyes widened. He darted forward and snatched it out of Hopkins' hand.

"Hey!" Hopkins demanded as Gregson actually took off running down the hall. "What the devil are you doing?" He demanded.

"Come on!" Gregson called back, but did not stop running.

Hopkins growled at the man's retreating form before taking off after him. I looked over at Holmes, who nodded, and we followed suit, leaving Bradstreet behind to wonder when everyone had started going mad.

Holmes and I caught up with Hopkins before very long, but it was not until we reached the street where Gregson was hailing a cab that we caught up with the fair haired Inspector. He climbed in and barked orders that I did not hear at the cabbie as Hopkins, Holmes and I were busy scrambling up into the cab before it took off.

We stopped at Lestrade's and piled out. Gregson didn't even bother knocking on the door, but barged inside. We hesitated for only a second before following. I wondered, as I entered the house behind Holmes, why Gregson had brought us here of all places.

We caught up with him as he stopped in the sitting room, looking down at Lestrade, who was going through a pile of old notebooks and rubbing his forehead as he did so. Lestrade suddenly realized he had company and looked up.

"Is that a good idea?" Gregson inquired, momentarily distracted. "You're just going to give yourself another headache."

"Too late." Lestrade grumbled. "What about you? Is it a good idea for you to be getting yourself more work _and_ getting Hopkins in trouble?"

It was surreal; the two men seemed to have completely forgotten what they had been doing only a moment before. Then Lestrade scowled. "What are you doing here, anyway?" He demanded.

And Gregson blinked. Then he remembered. "We've got him!" He declared triumphantly.

Lestrade did not share his enthusiasm. "Who?" He asked. Gregson looked at us as if expecting that _we_ should know.

"Crane?" I guessed.

"The child-killer?" Hopkins demanded.

"Both!" Gregson replied. He brandished the bloodied handkerchief at Lestrade.

"What is that?" Lestrade asked suspiciously, recoiling from it as if it were venomous. Gregson sighed and thrust it toward him again, and this time Lestrade actually looked at it.

His brow furrowed, and hesitantly he reached out to take it from the Inspector. The puzzled expression grew as he looked it over, then vanished as his eye fell on the letter embroidered in one corner.

All the color drained from his face. Then he swore, letting loose a stream of profanity the likes of which I had never heard before, not even from Hopkins at his worse. Hopkins, in fact, stared at Lestrade with his mouth hanging open, shocked by some of the words that came out of the man's mouth.

He stopped suddenly. "Of course!" He shouted, his eyes wide with the revelation. "The woman! She's his daughter! Idiot!" The insult was directed at himself.

"Whose daughter, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded irritably. He did not care for being in the dark, especially not while two of Scotland Yard's Inspectors seemed to know what was going on.

Lestrade looked about ready to throttle someone as Gregson realized the answer. "Superintendent Crane's." He held out the handkerchief. "_C _for Crane." He nodded toward the embroidered letter on the handkerchief.

"Crane is the child killer?" Hopkins cried. Lestrade snarled out a confirmation.

"You weren't sure." He directed this at Gregson, who nodded. "Is he still at the Yard?"

"He is." Hopkins assured him.

Lestrade smiled. It was rather frightening. "Let's get him." He said. Gregson and Hopkins nodded sharply, equally alarming smiles forming on their own faces.

I almost didn't notice, as we left, when Lestrade removed his revolver from his pocket and left in on his desk.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	24. Chapter 24

Crane stopped and stared at the scene before him. Two Inspectors, one amateur detective, and one doctor stood facing him. None of them looked pleased.

Inspector Gregson stepped forward. "You're under arrest," he said quietly, "for the murder of nine children."

Crane looked from one grim face to another. "I suppose you have proof, to level such an accusation at your superior." He said, his own voice low. Gregson nodded.

"We do." He said. Then he offered the Superintendent a smile that was not so friendly. "You lost your handkerchief at the scene of the crime. If it hadn't been monogrammed, we probably wouldn't have realized it was you."

"You've been working with Lestrade from the beginning." Crane realized. Gregson actually snorted.

"Of course." The Inspector said simply. "That's one of the reasons your buddies were so easy to take down back then, Crane. They didn't understand the concept of loyalty. The idea of being able to trust someone was a completely foreign notion."

Crane scowled. "You and your Inspector Lestrade fought like cats and dogs." He grumbled.

Gregson shrugged. "I don't have to like him to trust him." He said. He went for his handcuffs. "You know how this works, Crane. You know there's no point in trying to run."

Crane considered that for a second. Then he tried to run anyway.

He had not heard a fifth man come up behind him; he turned and found himself facing former Inspector Giles Lestrade.

Lestrade once again hit the man in the face, this time right handed. Crane clutched at his nose as blood sprayed from it; he staggered and fell to his knees. There was no doubt that his nose had been broken again. Nobody really felt any pity for him.

Lestrade was practically shaking with suppressed anger as Gregson cuffed the Superintendent. Hopkins could not stop himself from spitting at the man as he was hauled away. Gregson, who usually did not tolerate anyone abusing his arrests, did not seem to notice.

Finally the two Inspectors pulled themselves together. Lestrade grimaced and rubbed his arm while Hopkins went off in search of something with which to clean Crane's blood off the floor. The mess taken care of, the two men looked at each other uncertainly for a moment.

"We got him." Hopkins said finally. Lestrade hesitated, then nodded.

He turned and walked away without another word. Hopkins, Holmes, and I watched him go. Hopkins sighed, ran a hair through his head, and excused himself, saying he had work to do.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	25. Chapter 25

Author's note: To all who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! To all who do not, enjoy the extra updates anyway!

* * *

Superintendent Crane was convicted of brutally murdering nine boys. Lestrade, Gregson, and Hopkins saw to that. They all also attended the hanging.

They stood in a silent, somber row, not exactly happy with the way things had turned out, but at least somewhat appeased.

I pronounced the man dead myself. It was almost a relief when it was all over.

I found myself walking next to Lestrade on my way out. I had not seen him since Crane's arrest. I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.

"My arm is fine." He answered before I could ask. "Lizzie actually carried through on her threat to tie it down when I got home. She wouldn't untie me for three days." Though still rather tense, he was more relaxed than I had seen him in a while.

"And the rest of you?" I asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "Better, I suppose." He shook his head. "One less piece of trash to worry about."

"Did you ever figure out why he did it?" I asked. Lestrade sighed.

"Money." Lestrade grunted. "He was blackmailing the parents, we know that." He considered his next words carefully. "Entertainment. He used to run with a group back when I was still new to the force, not that we could ever prove it, that would cut up the people that crossed them and leave them on the steps of their own homes. He shot a man, once, on a case. A thief, not much more than a boy, and when cornered he surrendered, threw his gun down. Crane shot him anyway."

"And nobody did anything about that?" I asked. Something like that would never have been simply ignored at the Scotland Yard I knew.

Lestrade shook his head. "It was a different world then. Use of unnecessary force was common, even expected from certain members of the Yard." Lestrade laughed, though it was not a happy sound. "They said I was too easygoing in my dealings with criminals." He fell silent, thinking about the past and a Scotland Yard that was completely foreign to me.

"What will you do now?" I asked cautiously. I did not want to remind him that he was no longer with the Yard, but I was concerned.

Another shrug. "Jones and Gregson are putting up a fight to get me reinstated." He admitted. "They've pulled up incidents from cases I can barely even remember to demonstrate how indispensable I am to the Yard." Here Lestrade rolled his eyes, but he was only slightly annoyed. Surprised, a little embarrassed, and grateful, but only a little annoyed.

"Hopkins and Bradstreet haven't taken up arms as well?" I teased. Lestrade snorted.

"Hopkins is once again holding down the fort while they find another replacement Superintendent." Lestrade explained.

"Marshall isn't coming back, then?" I asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"He says he's done his time." He said. "He's convinced them to look for someone already at the Yard, though. No more outsiders." He said with a slight shudder.

"Who do you think it will be, then?" I asked. "Gregson? Jones?"

"Maybe." Lestrade grunted noncommittally. "Anyone would be better than Crane. Even Evans would be an improvement." I couldn't help but laugh as Lestrade seemed to be giving the thought of Constable Evans as Superintendent serious consideration. Lestrade noticed, and smiled. "Are you coming over tomorrow night, then?" He asked.

"If I can convince Holmes to come." I told him. "Between the two of us, I'm terrified at the thought of showing up without him again, especially when Elisabeth specifically said to bring him along."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


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